January 17th was something of a red letter day in Westphalia-on-Sea, as it marked the day when the Westphalia Express began to distance itself from the Mayor and his terribly expensive consultant's vision. Dr Pangloss got on the phone to the Editor, and he was not best pleased. 'WHAT'S THE MEANING OF THIS?' He screamed into the receiver. 'The last thing I said to you was to be more positive, and the next thing I know is one of your columnists is doing a full-page demolition job on my Vision under the heading 'I've seen the future and it's terrifying'.'
'Well, strictly speaking it's not your vision, is it? It's just a load of third-rate toss dreamed up by a bunch of shysters calling themselves consultants.'
'What?!' Spluttered Pangloss. 'I seem to remember that not so long ago your organ was right behind me. Why the change of heart?'
'Look, we gave you a fair crack at it, but the truth of the matter is that nobody in the whole of Cote de Westphalia is taken in by these crackpot ideas anymore, and we need to start to pull away, otherwise I'll risk looking as a much of a twat as you. If 99% of the correspondence from our readers is calling your idea 'Pie in the Sky' I have to reconsider my position.'
'What do you mean? There are still a few people who back me up.'
Oh, come on, it's just a few letters from the nutty brigade, Basil Finch and his ilk that support you now. If you added their IQs together it wouldn't be much above room temperature.'
'I see. I get the picture. I've had my crack, and now I can't depend on your organ to back me up, is that it?' asked Pangloss, exasperated.
'Er, in a nutshell, yes,' replied the Editor. 'But can we call it the 'newspaper' instead, just to avoid any ambiguity?'
'As you wish,' replied Pangloss.
'Look, I'll still do you the odd favour,' said the Editor. 'I'll carry on printing your picture with a big grin next to all the positive stories, and Ahmad Hatter's glum face next to all the negative ones, you know, like the parking meters, closing the seafront, selling off the bay to developers, all that sort of thing. How's that?'
'Big bloody deal, said Pangloss sarcastically. Thanks very bloody much. It's hardly the same as feeling the full force of your or.., newspaper, behind me, though, is it?'
'Best I can do in the circumstances, I'm afraid. The honeymoon period's well and truly over now. Oh, there's something else I should warn you about as well,' said the Editor. 'We're doing a follow up article after the locals started referring to your high rise vision of Westphalia-on-Sea as a Pie In the Sky Story. The thing is, we're a bit stuck for headline space, so we're going to have to abbreviate slightly. We'll probably call it 'Taking The PISS To New Heights.'
Chapter 41 In which we meet the Traveling Wilburys
At five to noon GMT Nelson Wilbury went into his office (recently described by estate agents as 'benefiting from spectacular views of the Cote de Westphalia') and prepared to hook up to a conference call over the internet. At the same time Charlie T. Wilbury jr, coffee in hand and still yawning, was hooking up to the very same call in the Canadian province of New Brunswick. Some two hundred miles up the coast from Nelson, Otis Wilbury was also clicking his mouse in readiness. In the foothills of the French Alps Lucky Wilbury turned down the sound of Manu Chao on his computer the better to hear his friends, and in an office in the town hall in Westphalia-on-Sea, Lefty Wilbury locked his door so he could take part in this virtual meeting.
'Good afternoon everyone, said Nelson,' watching the hands on his watch nudge past the twelve.
'Morning all,' replied Charlie.
Otis, Lucky and Lefty all signalled their presence, by grunting.
'OK,' said Nelson, 'good to see and hear you at this meeting of the Piddlebackside production team. Now, you'll have seen on the webpages of the Westphalia Express that there is a lot of material floating about at the moment, probably enough to keep us going for about three weeks, so I want to brainstorm a few ideas first; just jump in with your ideas.'
'I liked the U-turn on blind people having to pay for their library books - maybe a 'robbing the blind' type headline?' suggested Otis.
'Yeah, like it,' said Nelson.
I'm very keen on the 'build something like the Sydney Opera House at the harbour' quote - I think that's got a lot of mileage in it,' said Lucky.
'I agree,' said Nelson. 'I think that's good enough to build a blog chapter around. What about you Lefty - you've always got you ear to ground down at HQ. Anything we should know about that hasn't reached the paper yet? Got any more precise consultancy costs for us?'
'No, nothing at the moment,' said Lefty. I've got to be very careful just now, anyway. I sense a few of the brighter ones have realised there's a small leak here, but they want to be fairly sure they know who it is before they go public.'
'Right, well, you know the drill: radio silence unless you're absolutely sure there's no risk.'
'No worries, replied Lefty.
'Right, said Nelson. Did you all see the lengthy comment the other night which made a number of points?'
'No, I missed that,' said Lucky.
'Well, he basically did one of those 'writing in the style of the blog' pieces.'
'Oh, Christ, we've had a few of those since we started. All very flattering, but the one thing they all seem to have in common is their inherent lameness. What did it say?'
'He implied that we were disappointed because our hit rate tailed off after the Xmas break.'
'Hmm, we're still steady, with well over 14,000 hits; not bad for a little spare time project., I'd say. Anything else?'
'Yeah, he reckons that as satirists we should be a little more even-handed. Thinks we're just ranting like some bloke in the pub, and we're turning off some of the good folk of Westphalia-on-Sea. Wants us to have a go at a few other people.'
'What? Doesn't he get it? We're not doing this just to bloody entertain people. We want this wasting money on consultants to end. We're just identifying the bad guys and highlighting how ridiculous they are; saying what most Westphalians think.'
'Of course he gets it,' interjected Lefty. 'Whoever he is is worried. If you look at the content of it he mentions Pangloss, Localbloke and that insufferable bore from New Labour, but not Charlie Windsor. I think if it isn't Windsor himself then it's someone close to him. He mentions 'the mayor getting on his tits', and that's certainly a sentiment shared by Windsor. If you look at his blog, he actually says he's worried about 'voters seeking revenge at election time', over Pangloss's parking meter fiasco.'
'Ha! We forecast this happening back in chapter 26 when Martin Leyland told Windsor that Pangloss was a lame duck mayor. Is this a case of life imitating art?' asked Otis.
'Well, let's not get carried away,' advised Nelson. 'It was pretty obvious to anyone with half a brain what would happen.'
'So how should we reply to this piece of advice from a reader concerned about a fall in our popularity?'
'I think we just do nothing, but use it in a script, said Lucky.
'Yes,' agreed Charlie T. Wilbury, 'and sooner rather than later.'
'Sounds good,' said Lefty. 'Hey look I think I hear someone coming - I'm going to have to go.'
'OK everyone, said Nelson, the jaunty tone all but gone from his voice. 'Let's all get off-line. If they were to investigate Lefty's computer they'd soon get what they're after off the hard drive and it would be game over. Email me with stories in the usual way.'
'Good afternoon everyone, said Nelson,' watching the hands on his watch nudge past the twelve.
'Morning all,' replied Charlie.
Otis, Lucky and Lefty all signalled their presence, by grunting.
'OK,' said Nelson, 'good to see and hear you at this meeting of the Piddlebackside production team. Now, you'll have seen on the webpages of the Westphalia Express that there is a lot of material floating about at the moment, probably enough to keep us going for about three weeks, so I want to brainstorm a few ideas first; just jump in with your ideas.'
'I liked the U-turn on blind people having to pay for their library books - maybe a 'robbing the blind' type headline?' suggested Otis.
'Yeah, like it,' said Nelson.
I'm very keen on the 'build something like the Sydney Opera House at the harbour' quote - I think that's got a lot of mileage in it,' said Lucky.
'I agree,' said Nelson. 'I think that's good enough to build a blog chapter around. What about you Lefty - you've always got you ear to ground down at HQ. Anything we should know about that hasn't reached the paper yet? Got any more precise consultancy costs for us?'
'No, nothing at the moment,' said Lefty. I've got to be very careful just now, anyway. I sense a few of the brighter ones have realised there's a small leak here, but they want to be fairly sure they know who it is before they go public.'
'Right, well, you know the drill: radio silence unless you're absolutely sure there's no risk.'
'No worries, replied Lefty.
'Right, said Nelson. Did you all see the lengthy comment the other night which made a number of points?'
'No, I missed that,' said Lucky.
'Well, he basically did one of those 'writing in the style of the blog' pieces.'
'Oh, Christ, we've had a few of those since we started. All very flattering, but the one thing they all seem to have in common is their inherent lameness. What did it say?'
'He implied that we were disappointed because our hit rate tailed off after the Xmas break.'
'Hmm, we're still steady, with well over 14,000 hits; not bad for a little spare time project., I'd say. Anything else?'
'Yeah, he reckons that as satirists we should be a little more even-handed. Thinks we're just ranting like some bloke in the pub, and we're turning off some of the good folk of Westphalia-on-Sea. Wants us to have a go at a few other people.'
'What? Doesn't he get it? We're not doing this just to bloody entertain people. We want this wasting money on consultants to end. We're just identifying the bad guys and highlighting how ridiculous they are; saying what most Westphalians think.'
'Of course he gets it,' interjected Lefty. 'Whoever he is is worried. If you look at the content of it he mentions Pangloss, Localbloke and that insufferable bore from New Labour, but not Charlie Windsor. I think if it isn't Windsor himself then it's someone close to him. He mentions 'the mayor getting on his tits', and that's certainly a sentiment shared by Windsor. If you look at his blog, he actually says he's worried about 'voters seeking revenge at election time', over Pangloss's parking meter fiasco.'
'Ha! We forecast this happening back in chapter 26 when Martin Leyland told Windsor that Pangloss was a lame duck mayor. Is this a case of life imitating art?' asked Otis.
'Well, let's not get carried away,' advised Nelson. 'It was pretty obvious to anyone with half a brain what would happen.'
'So how should we reply to this piece of advice from a reader concerned about a fall in our popularity?'
'I think we just do nothing, but use it in a script, said Lucky.
'Yes,' agreed Charlie T. Wilbury, 'and sooner rather than later.'
'Sounds good,' said Lefty. 'Hey look I think I hear someone coming - I'm going to have to go.'
'OK everyone, said Nelson, the jaunty tone all but gone from his voice. 'Let's all get off-line. If they were to investigate Lefty's computer they'd soon get what they're after off the hard drive and it would be game over. Email me with stories in the usual way.'
Chapter 40 In which Pangloss has a dream
As Pangloss drifted off the events of the last few months came tumbling back into his subconscious and he was engulfed by one of the most bizarre dreams of his life. First the nasty Piddlebackside blogger appeared on a bicycle and snatched Chairman Miaow. Pangloss raced after him. The next thing he knew he had woken up in a place that was a really vibrant and colourful version of the old drab Cote de Westphalia, except that it had a different name. The Piddlebackside blogger was dead, but there was another one ready to take his place. Pangloss didn't like this place at all; he just wanted to get back to the old familiar Cote de Westphalia. When he looked down he saw he was wearing a pair of magic ruby slippers, and all the little people were dancing around saying he was the mayor. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a payslip - it said more than £4,000 a month on it - surely he was dreaming?
Then someone appeared and told him about a magical place that he should go to; it was a garden city, but near the sea. It was a very green city - almost emerald. All he had to do was follow the magic tree-lined by-pass. Pangloss set off alone, but he was quickly joined by three other characters. They were strangers but something about them reminded him of Charlie Windsor, Ahmad Hatter and the editor of the Westphalia Express. They were all hoping to get something from this magical mythical place: Charlie Windsor wanted a seat at Westminster and a fat salary, Ahmad Hatter wanted some brains, and the editor wanted some courage to print something with a little objectivity. When they finally reached the magic city it looked fabulous, but on closer inspection it was just an illusion, created with smoke and mirrors. The man in charge was still pretending it was all real, and he bore a strong resemblance to Derek Poundsign. Pangloss began sweating - he had put all his eggs in this basket, and now he looked behind the curtain and saw it for what it was. Oh, he just wanted to go home. Then he saw a big balloon - maybe that was the answer to all his problems. It seemd unlikely but he was willing to try anything, otherwise what was he going to tell the little people who said he was their mayor? He became agitated, and started moaning, tossing his head from side to side and mumbling 'there's no place like home, there's no place like home ...'
'Dr Pangloss, Dr Pangloss, wake up.' It was the voice of his secretary. 'There are some people here to see you.'
Pangloss opened his eyes and looked up into the faces of Charlie Windsor, Ahmad Hatter and the editor of the Westphalia Express.
'My, am I glad to see you. I just had the most bizarre and scary dream - it was awful. All these silly little people told me I was their mayor, and of course I didn't know what I was doing and made a complete hash of everything and all I wanted to do was get home and be an estate agent again and do amateur dramatics but I couldn't get home, but now I realise that it was all just a horrible dream.'
'Well you have been dreaming Dr Pangloss, but I'm afraid you still are the mayor, and you still believe in that fictitious Emerald Garden City by the Sea.'
'Wait, how do you know about the Emerald City? I didn't mention that bit of the dream.'
'It's all here,' smiled the editor, pointing to the front page of the newspaper. And it's been in every issue, and will continue to be until everybody comes to their senses.'
'Hang on, now I'm confused. So the mayor bit is true, but the garden city thing is a fiction?'
'That's right,' they all chorused.
'Shit,' said Pangloss. 'Shit and bugger. What about you Ahmad - did you get your brains?'
Ahmad Hatter shook his head.
'And you Charlie - your seat, and the salary?'
''Fraid not, old man.'
'Editor - your courage?'
'Not yet.'
'Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Wait a minute, what about my payslip with £4,000 on it -is that real?'
'Oh yes, that's real all right,' they said.
'Oh well,' said Pangloss. 'It's not all bad news then.'
Then someone appeared and told him about a magical place that he should go to; it was a garden city, but near the sea. It was a very green city - almost emerald. All he had to do was follow the magic tree-lined by-pass. Pangloss set off alone, but he was quickly joined by three other characters. They were strangers but something about them reminded him of Charlie Windsor, Ahmad Hatter and the editor of the Westphalia Express. They were all hoping to get something from this magical mythical place: Charlie Windsor wanted a seat at Westminster and a fat salary, Ahmad Hatter wanted some brains, and the editor wanted some courage to print something with a little objectivity. When they finally reached the magic city it looked fabulous, but on closer inspection it was just an illusion, created with smoke and mirrors. The man in charge was still pretending it was all real, and he bore a strong resemblance to Derek Poundsign. Pangloss began sweating - he had put all his eggs in this basket, and now he looked behind the curtain and saw it for what it was. Oh, he just wanted to go home. Then he saw a big balloon - maybe that was the answer to all his problems. It seemd unlikely but he was willing to try anything, otherwise what was he going to tell the little people who said he was their mayor? He became agitated, and started moaning, tossing his head from side to side and mumbling 'there's no place like home, there's no place like home ...'
'Dr Pangloss, Dr Pangloss, wake up.' It was the voice of his secretary. 'There are some people here to see you.'
Pangloss opened his eyes and looked up into the faces of Charlie Windsor, Ahmad Hatter and the editor of the Westphalia Express.
'My, am I glad to see you. I just had the most bizarre and scary dream - it was awful. All these silly little people told me I was their mayor, and of course I didn't know what I was doing and made a complete hash of everything and all I wanted to do was get home and be an estate agent again and do amateur dramatics but I couldn't get home, but now I realise that it was all just a horrible dream.'
'Well you have been dreaming Dr Pangloss, but I'm afraid you still are the mayor, and you still believe in that fictitious Emerald Garden City by the Sea.'
'Wait, how do you know about the Emerald City? I didn't mention that bit of the dream.'
'It's all here,' smiled the editor, pointing to the front page of the newspaper. And it's been in every issue, and will continue to be until everybody comes to their senses.'
'Hang on, now I'm confused. So the mayor bit is true, but the garden city thing is a fiction?'
'That's right,' they all chorused.
'Shit,' said Pangloss. 'Shit and bugger. What about you Ahmad - did you get your brains?'
Ahmad Hatter shook his head.
'And you Charlie - your seat, and the salary?'
''Fraid not, old man.'
'Editor - your courage?'
'Not yet.'
'Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Wait a minute, what about my payslip with £4,000 on it -is that real?'
'Oh yes, that's real all right,' they said.
'Oh well,' said Pangloss. 'It's not all bad news then.'
Chapter 39 In which the Westphalians do not respond favourably to the vision
Following his consultants' warning that the public might realise that his 'blueprint' was just bollocks, Dr Pangloss's hands were trembling slightly as he picked up the Westphalia Express to look for the first reactions of the Westphalians to the news that they would soon all be living in a dynamic new city environment. On page 3 there was an article about his vision, but worryingly it was accompanied by a picture of Derek Poundsign. What was his face doing in the Westphalia Express? Pangloss sensed this was not a good sign. In the middle of the article it said 'WHAT YOU THINK: See Page 10'. Pangloss quickly flicked through to page 10, but was not happy with what he found there. It was a full page article with a photo of the town centre of Westphalia-on-Sea which had some hastily drawn things on it, and all the traffic had been airbrushed out. This was definitely the work of Complete Commercial Upgrades & New Town Solutions, but what worried Pangloss more was the headline: WHAT YOU THINK Mayor vision is 'pie in the sky'. As he read the article he felt his blood pressure begin to rise. The paper had been out asking locals in the town centre what they thought of Pangloss's ideas, and every one of the ungrateful morons had had something negative to say. Pangloss threw the paper down and began punching the keypad of his phone; he was going to have it out with the editor.
'What are you playing at, printing this pie in the sky article?' thundered Pangloss as soon as the editor came on the line. 'You're supposed to be supporting me.'
'Well, I just thought it would be good to get some reaction from Joe Public.'
'Well, it could have been more balanced. Why didn't you print any of the positive things that people said?'
'There weren't any.'
'There must have been some.'
'Look, if there were, we'd have printed them, wouldn't we? The journalist and photographer were there over an hour and spoke to loads of people, but the most often repeated reaction was 'pie in the sky'. The second other phrase we kept hearing was 'pigs might fly', but we didn't want to print that in case it upset anyone. After that row over the teddy bear called Mohammed we thought it best to avoid it.'
Well, that's not the only thing I'm unhappy about. Not only is there no picture of me on the front page, but there's no picture of me on page three either. Instead you've got one of Derek Poundsign. What's that all about?'
'Well, the cat's out of the bag now, isn't it? Everybody know's it's not your vision, and that it's just some old cobblers dreamed up during someone's coffee break in Exhole, so we went directly to them for some comments. You've got to hand it to those guys - they do know how to fill up a few columns in a newspaper with meaningless drivel.'
'That's as may be, but I want to see a change in Monday's edition. I want to see my picture on the front page, possibly on an inside page as well, and I certainly don't want to see Derek Poundsign staring out of the bloody paper at me. Is that understood?'
'But look, I can't guarantee ...,' started the editor.
'But me no buts man! And while we're on the subject, let's have some supportive comments on the readers' letters page.'
'Well, look, I can avoid printing a lot of the critical ones, but I can't print positive ones if I don't receive any, can I?'
'You must have some positive ones, surely?'
'No, I print them as soon as I get them. The only vaguely positive one I have kicking about is an email from a bloke in America who calls you a dreamer -but in a good way.'
'Well print that for now, but this is a problem that needs addressing. Somebody is going to have to start writing some letters supporting me soon. I can't rely on a bloke in America and those nutty ex-Lib-Dems to keep bailing me out.'
Pangloss put the phone down without saying goodbye. He was beginning to rue the day he telephoned those bloody consultants. He sat back in his chair and looked at the rain lashing against the window. It looked like the gale force winds that had been forecast had arrived right on cue. He felt physically drained from the phone call, and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After a few moments he was drifting off, in spite of the loud noise of the wind whistling outside his window.
'What are you playing at, printing this pie in the sky article?' thundered Pangloss as soon as the editor came on the line. 'You're supposed to be supporting me.'
'Well, I just thought it would be good to get some reaction from Joe Public.'
'Well, it could have been more balanced. Why didn't you print any of the positive things that people said?'
'There weren't any.'
'There must have been some.'
'Look, if there were, we'd have printed them, wouldn't we? The journalist and photographer were there over an hour and spoke to loads of people, but the most often repeated reaction was 'pie in the sky'. The second other phrase we kept hearing was 'pigs might fly', but we didn't want to print that in case it upset anyone. After that row over the teddy bear called Mohammed we thought it best to avoid it.'
Well, that's not the only thing I'm unhappy about. Not only is there no picture of me on the front page, but there's no picture of me on page three either. Instead you've got one of Derek Poundsign. What's that all about?'
'Well, the cat's out of the bag now, isn't it? Everybody know's it's not your vision, and that it's just some old cobblers dreamed up during someone's coffee break in Exhole, so we went directly to them for some comments. You've got to hand it to those guys - they do know how to fill up a few columns in a newspaper with meaningless drivel.'
'That's as may be, but I want to see a change in Monday's edition. I want to see my picture on the front page, possibly on an inside page as well, and I certainly don't want to see Derek Poundsign staring out of the bloody paper at me. Is that understood?'
'But look, I can't guarantee ...,' started the editor.
'But me no buts man! And while we're on the subject, let's have some supportive comments on the readers' letters page.'
'Well, look, I can avoid printing a lot of the critical ones, but I can't print positive ones if I don't receive any, can I?'
'You must have some positive ones, surely?'
'No, I print them as soon as I get them. The only vaguely positive one I have kicking about is an email from a bloke in America who calls you a dreamer -but in a good way.'
'Well print that for now, but this is a problem that needs addressing. Somebody is going to have to start writing some letters supporting me soon. I can't rely on a bloke in America and those nutty ex-Lib-Dems to keep bailing me out.'
Pangloss put the phone down without saying goodbye. He was beginning to rue the day he telephoned those bloody consultants. He sat back in his chair and looked at the rain lashing against the window. It looked like the gale force winds that had been forecast had arrived right on cue. He felt physically drained from the phone call, and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After a few moments he was drifting off, in spite of the loud noise of the wind whistling outside his window.
Chapter 38 In which the consultants begin to turn up the heat
Down at the Town Hall Dr Pangloss was feeling rather light-headed after having had two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach at the launch of his new blueprint for Westphalia-on-Sea. Now back in his office with the team from complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions he was feeling more upbeat than he had for a long time.
'You know, he said, 'I don't want to tell you your job or anything, but I think you should change your name - it's a bit of a mouthful.'
'Just you leave the name changing and rebranding to us, the experts, replied Derek Poundsign. 'Name changing is a very skilled job, especially when you sometimes have to quickly change a name back and hope that nobody notices. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with our name - those five words sum us up perfectly.'
'Oh, OK. Well it was only a suggestion. Anyway, how did you think the launch went?'
'Who for - you or us?' asked Derek.
'Well, me, of course.'
'Difficult to say, at this stage. Of course we've had the favourable report in the Westphalia Express, but that no indication of how people feel. No, we have to wait to judge the reaction. These high profile launches and reports are all very well, but they can be a bit of a high risk strategy.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, if you publicise something and make it available on the internet you risk someone actually reading it.'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Well, they'll quickly realise it's all bollocks, of course.'
'Oh, blimey, I hadn't thought of that. Well, if it's high risk for me, how do you, the consultants, come out of it?'
'Oh, we came out of it very well,' said Derek, grinning from ear to ear. 'I think the technical term for our position is 'win-win'. We've managed to move things along in everyone's mind from a 'vision' to a blueprint' without anything actually happening. This is being presented as the next stage of a big plan. It creates the impression that things are actually changing, when they aren't. We've come up with another long-winded document that makes 'suggestions' and says what 'could' happen. It's vague, and makes no definite promises, and even if we did make promises it would be up to you to deliver them, not us. Then of course, there's your relationship with us - now you're so far down the line with these daft ideas you can't stop using our services. You'll notice we've started to mention 'specialist project delivery teams' and 'setting up an urban regeneration company' - there are going to be plenty of new initiatives which we will have to oversee.'
'Well, you're suddenly being very candid, Mr Poundsign. It appears you have me over a barrel, and think you can carry on squeezing taxpayers' money out of me until the coffers run dry. What makes you so sure I won't dispense with your services?'
'Mainly the fact that you are utterly clueless and incapable of coming up with any ideas of your own.'
Dr Pangloss suddenly felt a griping pain in his stomach, excused himself and headed for the toilet near his office. When he emerged Toby Throgmorton was waiting outside.
'I'd give it ten minutes or so if I were you,' said Dr Pangloss, his cheeks reddening slightly, as he headed back to his office.
(to be continued)
'You know, he said, 'I don't want to tell you your job or anything, but I think you should change your name - it's a bit of a mouthful.'
'Just you leave the name changing and rebranding to us, the experts, replied Derek Poundsign. 'Name changing is a very skilled job, especially when you sometimes have to quickly change a name back and hope that nobody notices. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with our name - those five words sum us up perfectly.'
'Oh, OK. Well it was only a suggestion. Anyway, how did you think the launch went?'
'Who for - you or us?' asked Derek.
'Well, me, of course.'
'Difficult to say, at this stage. Of course we've had the favourable report in the Westphalia Express, but that no indication of how people feel. No, we have to wait to judge the reaction. These high profile launches and reports are all very well, but they can be a bit of a high risk strategy.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, if you publicise something and make it available on the internet you risk someone actually reading it.'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Well, they'll quickly realise it's all bollocks, of course.'
'Oh, blimey, I hadn't thought of that. Well, if it's high risk for me, how do you, the consultants, come out of it?'
'Oh, we came out of it very well,' said Derek, grinning from ear to ear. 'I think the technical term for our position is 'win-win'. We've managed to move things along in everyone's mind from a 'vision' to a blueprint' without anything actually happening. This is being presented as the next stage of a big plan. It creates the impression that things are actually changing, when they aren't. We've come up with another long-winded document that makes 'suggestions' and says what 'could' happen. It's vague, and makes no definite promises, and even if we did make promises it would be up to you to deliver them, not us. Then of course, there's your relationship with us - now you're so far down the line with these daft ideas you can't stop using our services. You'll notice we've started to mention 'specialist project delivery teams' and 'setting up an urban regeneration company' - there are going to be plenty of new initiatives which we will have to oversee.'
'Well, you're suddenly being very candid, Mr Poundsign. It appears you have me over a barrel, and think you can carry on squeezing taxpayers' money out of me until the coffers run dry. What makes you so sure I won't dispense with your services?'
'Mainly the fact that you are utterly clueless and incapable of coming up with any ideas of your own.'
Dr Pangloss suddenly felt a griping pain in his stomach, excused himself and headed for the toilet near his office. When he emerged Toby Throgmorton was waiting outside.
'I'd give it ten minutes or so if I were you,' said Dr Pangloss, his cheeks reddening slightly, as he headed back to his office.
(to be continued)
Chapter 37 In which the logician puts the record straight
In the run up to Christmas Loretta Martin had struck up something of a friendship with the logician, and had popped in for tea and a chat on several occasions after work; the shop never seemed to have any customers, and he always seemed pleased to see her.
'Hi,' she said. 'I just wondered what you thought of all this fuss about what Brian Localbloke said about immigration, and people accusing him of being racist.'
'Oh, don't get me started,' sighed the logician. 'I've never read such a lot drivel in all my life. Trying to make out that talking about immigrants and their effect on the local economy is in any way connected to racism is utterly mad, and anyone who suggests it should be in a padded cell. Funnily enough most of this stuff seems to be coming from ex-Lib-Dems who are now evangelical born-again Tories. But then why would we expect these people to apply logic to any discussion? Reality is clearly a place to which these people seldom venture, and anyone who expresses any kind of doubt in the rosy future mapped out by Dr Pangloss is automatically denounced as some kind of dangerous subversive. Take tonight's edition of the Westphalia Express for example: in the editorial critics of Dr Pangloss's plans are described as 'snipers'. And guess what? On the front page the firm of consultants that we are paying an arm and a leg for have been upgraded to 'experts'. You couldn't make it up. The Westphalia Express has cosied up to the mayor in a big way.'
'Have you thought of writing to the paper to put the case for the other side?' asked Loretta.
'Waste of time. You couldn't write what you wanted to - they'd edit the letters. It would be like Galileo trying to get his ideas published in his local parish news. It just isn't going to happen. No, the only way to get your opinion across without censorship is on the internet.'
'Hi,' she said. 'I just wondered what you thought of all this fuss about what Brian Localbloke said about immigration, and people accusing him of being racist.'
'Oh, don't get me started,' sighed the logician. 'I've never read such a lot drivel in all my life. Trying to make out that talking about immigrants and their effect on the local economy is in any way connected to racism is utterly mad, and anyone who suggests it should be in a padded cell. Funnily enough most of this stuff seems to be coming from ex-Lib-Dems who are now evangelical born-again Tories. But then why would we expect these people to apply logic to any discussion? Reality is clearly a place to which these people seldom venture, and anyone who expresses any kind of doubt in the rosy future mapped out by Dr Pangloss is automatically denounced as some kind of dangerous subversive. Take tonight's edition of the Westphalia Express for example: in the editorial critics of Dr Pangloss's plans are described as 'snipers'. And guess what? On the front page the firm of consultants that we are paying an arm and a leg for have been upgraded to 'experts'. You couldn't make it up. The Westphalia Express has cosied up to the mayor in a big way.'
'Have you thought of writing to the paper to put the case for the other side?' asked Loretta.
'Waste of time. You couldn't write what you wanted to - they'd edit the letters. It would be like Galileo trying to get his ideas published in his local parish news. It just isn't going to happen. No, the only way to get your opinion across without censorship is on the internet.'
Chapter 36 In which Pangloss makes some New Year's resolutions
As Dr Pangloss pulled the curtains and looked out at the New Year a good idea occurred to him. Going into the kitchen he opened the back door and let Chairman Miaow in, greeting him with a hearty 'Happy New Year!'. Yes, it was time to bring a little order to the chaos, and what better way on January 1st than with a few New Year's resolutions. He grabbed a pen and his notepad and started writing: 1 Discover identity of blogger and stop him. 2 Find out how much money is being spent on consultants and act to reduce it. 3 Only write about positive things in my newspaper column. 4 Improve my popularity. 5 Listen to the people of Westphalia. Pangloss put the pen down and re-read the list in front of him. Number one, he thought, might be tricky. All the leads he had had so far had proved inconclusive. There were suspicions that it was someone at the Westphalia Express, and then it was suggested that it may even be someone in the Town Hall - someone close to Pangloss. Either way, it was a niggling thorn in Pangloss's side, and he felt sure that life would be slightly easier if he didn't have to constantly worry about having his every thought and deed scrutinized. Number two: well, things did seem to be spiralling out of control - there seemed to be different consultants for just about every aspect of council business, and he had quite lost the plot concerning who was advising on what, and how much it was all costing. Of course, the money wasn't coming out of his pocket, but he still felt a little uneasy every time he saw another five- or six-figure sum being siphoned out of the kitty. Number three: yes, he could do that: he would talk about picking up litter on Xmas morning, pantomimes and Westphalia United winning football matches. Number four. Hmm, that was going to be a bit more difficult. He decided to rethink a strategy to tackle that one later. Number five. Hmm, he wasn't so sure about this one. He knew it was a good thing in theory, but the problem was that whenever he suggested doing something everybody disagreed with him. Then Dr Pangloss remembered that local couple with the funny voices who he had mistaken for consultants - they seemed like reasonable people. If only he could track them down and get some ideas from them. Even though he knew he was safe in his job until 2011 he didn't fancy being an unpopular laughing stock until then if he could help it. Why not enlist the help of some locals, put their ideas into practice and dispense with all the grand plans and visions? - it would be a lot cheaper. It sounded like a Utopian dream, but it had to be worth a try -even the dimwits in Westphalia-on-Sea would eventually get fed up hearing him go on about pantomimes and amateur dramatics for the next three and a half years.
For the first time in weeks Dr Pangloss felt quite optimistic.
'Do you know, Chairman Miaow,' he said, 'I am really going to sort this town or city out. I'm going to mention the pantomime in Eastphalia one last time, then I'll really knuckle down and tackle the important stuff.'
And with that he added a sixth resolution to his list - 6 No more talk about pantomimes.
For the first time in weeks Dr Pangloss felt quite optimistic.
'Do you know, Chairman Miaow,' he said, 'I am really going to sort this town or city out. I'm going to mention the pantomime in Eastphalia one last time, then I'll really knuckle down and tackle the important stuff.'
And with that he added a sixth resolution to his list - 6 No more talk about pantomimes.
Chapter 35 In which Pangloss prepares a message of inspiration and hope for the Westphalians
Dr Pangloss idly sucked the end of his pencil and stared out of the window, searching for inspiration. He was trying to write his next 'Best of All Possible Worlds' column for the Westphalia Express, and he wanted this one to carry a little extra punch, seeing as it would be his first column of 2008, but the words just didn't seem to come. Well, it wasn't that the words wouldn't come exactly, it was just that when they did they didn't seem to be related by any obvious logic.
First there was the ongoing story about the town centre. One day he said the town was going to rack and ruin, filled with discount stores, then he said it would all be fantastic because it would soon be a thriving city. Then he said the discount stores were a good thing, because he imagined if you were a nasty local chav family with loads of screaming snotty-nosed kids you would have to get everything from Poundland anyway, and how did anyone expect the town centre to improve if the local economy was a mess? And then there were the buses. They were good because they were full of shoppers, but they were bad because they nearly ran people over on a daily basis. Of course the people who nearly got run over were usually chavs, children, hen parties or pensioners, and none of these were in the high-spending bracket that Pangloss wanted in his new city, so maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing if there was a bit of 'natural wastage'.
It wasn't Pangloss's fault that the road actually looked like a pedestrianised area, or that the fat chavs were too busy staring at shop windows full of pies and pasties to notice a bloody great bus heading towards them. Anyway, he wasn't going to waste good money just to make the road look like a road and the pavement look like a pavement when just around the corner most of the seafront was almost derelict.
On reflection Pangloss thought it best not to mention the town centre for a while. Or the seafront. No, people wanted to read about upbeat things, like rubbing shoulders with celebrities once Pierre de Saveloy had built his mini-resort, and climate change had transformed the pebbly cove into a long stretch of white Caribbean sand just like the consultants said it would. Well, maybe not rubbing shoulders exactly, but perhaps catching a glimpse through the telescope at the top of the cliff. He made a note to include that in his column.
Now what about the parking meters? They hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms by the usual miserable letter-writers and phone-in callers. Pangloss thought it a bit rich - they would be a marvellous symbol of progress, after all. When Brunel came to the south-west with his hare-brained railway schemes people started putting up statues in his likeness and naming roads after him. Now when Dr Pangloss suggested a modern metal monument around the bay's roads to bring in some much-needed revenue no-one seemed very enthusiastic. Still, he wouldn't be put off by the fact that pretty much every Westphalian was against the idea - he had been elected by about 7% of the people, and if the other 93% didn't like the parking meter idea it was tough luck - that was democracy. Pangloss wrote 'Parking meters?' because he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to mention them. Maybe he would point out it was one of those difficult decisions that brave leaders had to take once in a while, a bit like Churchill planning D-Day, or Bomber Harris sending the RAF boys off to Dresden.
Pangloss looked down at the page in front of him, which was still mostly blank. His heart just didn't seem to be in it anymore. He had spun so many stories from so many angles he hardly knew what to believe himself anymore. He was beginning to wonder if spending £740,000 on consultants in the last twelve months had been wise. And what if he spent that kind of money in the next twelve months? Would he still be popular with the Westphalians? Would they start shouting 'STOP WASTING OUR MONEY ON CONSULTANTS'? Oh no, he thought, I mustn't think like that, self-doubt is my enemy, I must maintain a positive mental attitude. After all, whatever happens, I'm safe here in my bunker with my fat mayoral salary, and if I need to pop down to Oxfam for a second-hand book I can do it in the mayoral limo, and I won't even have to pay to park. This thought put a smile on his face. He screwed the almost blank sheet of paper into a ball and threw if for his cat to play with. As Chairman Miaow chased the paper ball between the legs of the table Pangloss said to himself: 'Sod it. That column can wait -let's have drink; it is New Year's Eve after all, and whatever happens in 2008 I'm sure I will still be laughing at the end of it.'
First there was the ongoing story about the town centre. One day he said the town was going to rack and ruin, filled with discount stores, then he said it would all be fantastic because it would soon be a thriving city. Then he said the discount stores were a good thing, because he imagined if you were a nasty local chav family with loads of screaming snotty-nosed kids you would have to get everything from Poundland anyway, and how did anyone expect the town centre to improve if the local economy was a mess? And then there were the buses. They were good because they were full of shoppers, but they were bad because they nearly ran people over on a daily basis. Of course the people who nearly got run over were usually chavs, children, hen parties or pensioners, and none of these were in the high-spending bracket that Pangloss wanted in his new city, so maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing if there was a bit of 'natural wastage'.
It wasn't Pangloss's fault that the road actually looked like a pedestrianised area, or that the fat chavs were too busy staring at shop windows full of pies and pasties to notice a bloody great bus heading towards them. Anyway, he wasn't going to waste good money just to make the road look like a road and the pavement look like a pavement when just around the corner most of the seafront was almost derelict.
On reflection Pangloss thought it best not to mention the town centre for a while. Or the seafront. No, people wanted to read about upbeat things, like rubbing shoulders with celebrities once Pierre de Saveloy had built his mini-resort, and climate change had transformed the pebbly cove into a long stretch of white Caribbean sand just like the consultants said it would. Well, maybe not rubbing shoulders exactly, but perhaps catching a glimpse through the telescope at the top of the cliff. He made a note to include that in his column.
Now what about the parking meters? They hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms by the usual miserable letter-writers and phone-in callers. Pangloss thought it a bit rich - they would be a marvellous symbol of progress, after all. When Brunel came to the south-west with his hare-brained railway schemes people started putting up statues in his likeness and naming roads after him. Now when Dr Pangloss suggested a modern metal monument around the bay's roads to bring in some much-needed revenue no-one seemed very enthusiastic. Still, he wouldn't be put off by the fact that pretty much every Westphalian was against the idea - he had been elected by about 7% of the people, and if the other 93% didn't like the parking meter idea it was tough luck - that was democracy. Pangloss wrote 'Parking meters?' because he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to mention them. Maybe he would point out it was one of those difficult decisions that brave leaders had to take once in a while, a bit like Churchill planning D-Day, or Bomber Harris sending the RAF boys off to Dresden.
Pangloss looked down at the page in front of him, which was still mostly blank. His heart just didn't seem to be in it anymore. He had spun so many stories from so many angles he hardly knew what to believe himself anymore. He was beginning to wonder if spending £740,000 on consultants in the last twelve months had been wise. And what if he spent that kind of money in the next twelve months? Would he still be popular with the Westphalians? Would they start shouting 'STOP WASTING OUR MONEY ON CONSULTANTS'? Oh no, he thought, I mustn't think like that, self-doubt is my enemy, I must maintain a positive mental attitude. After all, whatever happens, I'm safe here in my bunker with my fat mayoral salary, and if I need to pop down to Oxfam for a second-hand book I can do it in the mayoral limo, and I won't even have to pay to park. This thought put a smile on his face. He screwed the almost blank sheet of paper into a ball and threw if for his cat to play with. As Chairman Miaow chased the paper ball between the legs of the table Pangloss said to himself: 'Sod it. That column can wait -let's have drink; it is New Year's Eve after all, and whatever happens in 2008 I'm sure I will still be laughing at the end of it.'
Dear Readers ...
as Westphalia-on-Sea's economy slowly spirals down the toilet it has become necessary for some of the blog's editorial team to fake their own deaths so that insurance claims can be made, etc. For this reason it has been deemed wise to cease all blog activities until some time after Christmas.
We sincerely hope that this will not spoil your enjoyment of the festive period.
We sincerely hope that this will not spoil your enjoyment of the festive period.
Chapter 34 In which we are given a glimpse of the future
It was a bright warm day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Pierre de Saveloy, his hand held up to his forehead in an effort to shield his face from the fierce heat of the sun's rays, slipped quickly through the smoked glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a Polish chambermaid entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of coconut oil and beach mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for an indoor display had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-seven, with gold-rimmed spectacles and ruggedly handsome features.
Mr de Saveloy entered the glass lift, which silently and effortlessly transported him towards his penthouse office suite. On each landing opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. DR PANGLOSS MADE ALL THIS POSSIBLE, the caption beneath it ran.
Looking out of the smoked glass window he spent a few idle minutes watching the activity on the number of luxury yachts which were moored in the bay. On the largest boat he could just make out Mr Abramovich, who still looked good for his fifty-nine years. On a slightly smaller vessel the elderly Richard Branson appeared to be tucking into a hearty breakfast. He wasn't sure who owned the third boat, but the three semi-naked women on board were already attracting the attention of the paparazzi, who were pointing telephoto lenses at them from their vantage point high on the cliffs above. It was a laborious job hanging around in the bushes all day, but the money they could get from the tabloids for one good snap of a celebrity would be enough to pay for a couple of days' parking on the meters which ran along the clifftop, so it was well worth the inconvenience. Just then Victoria Beckham came into view on the sun terrace. Pierre de Saveloy opened the French window onto the terrace and went outside to greet her.
'Good morning,' he shouted. 'All ready for the big event?'
'We're getting there,' replied Victoria. 'Everything will be ready for the second of May. This will be the biggest fiftieth birthday party ever - David is really looking forward to it.'
'Well, I'm just glad that you chose to celebrate it here,' replied de Saveloy.
'Oh, we wouldn't go anywhere else. To tell you the truth, Dubai and the Maldives have had their day, and of course all the chic Mediterranean resorts are just too hot now.'
'Yes, well, we were lucky enough to have consultants tell us that eighteen years ago. Of course, the usual naysayers said they were talking out of their arse and just padding out a lame presentation with a lot of scientific claptrap, but those High Priests and Priestesses of Negativity have all been proved wrong.'
'Oh, don't you just hate negative people?' said Victoria. 'I had exactly the same experience with people saying I was utterly talentless and couldn't sing, but I showed them.'
With that a siren began wailing.
'What's that?' asked Victoria.
'Oh, probably some pleb has got lost and wandered up to the entrance,' said de Saveloy. 'Nothing to worry about.'
'Oh, right. Well, I'd better be going, because we're off down to that new casino again today. It's absolutely fantastic - have you been?'
'Of course I have; it's the jewel in the crown, what wealthy people come to Westphalia-on-Sea for.'
Down at the heavily guarded entrance a man had indeed tried to gain access to the complex.
'What do you want?' asked one of the security guards in a gruff voice.
'I just wanted to come in and have a drink and have a look round. I heard this was the place where that murder happened; you know, the man they couldn't hang.'
'How did you get here?'
'I walked down the path.'
'Hmm, I'm not sure that's allowed. We're really only open to people who arrive in yachts or very expensive cars. I'll have to radio through for clearance.'
After a short conversation on his walkie-talkie the security guard waved the man through, with the words 'OK one drink, and my colleague will escort you to make sure you keep to the designated areas.'
As they walked into the complex the man said 'My grandmother told me the story. Apparently this place used to be really picturesque, with trees and stuff.'
'Yeah, well that's was then and this is now,' said the guard. 'If people had wanted picturesque or quaint they would have said so a long time ago when all this was at the planning stage. Anyway, trees are just a bloody nuisance. Look at it now - concrete, tarmac, and everything nice and new. And look at the people - no riff-raff, as it should be. You want to stop thinking about how things were in the past and start living in the present; and the future.'
The man went up to the bar and ordered a coffee and a muffin. The barman placed it in front of him, and in heavily accented English said: 'Zat vill be nineteen eighty-four. No vait, I make mistake - tventy tventy-five.'
The hallway smelt of coconut oil and beach mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for an indoor display had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-seven, with gold-rimmed spectacles and ruggedly handsome features.
Mr de Saveloy entered the glass lift, which silently and effortlessly transported him towards his penthouse office suite. On each landing opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. DR PANGLOSS MADE ALL THIS POSSIBLE, the caption beneath it ran.
Looking out of the smoked glass window he spent a few idle minutes watching the activity on the number of luxury yachts which were moored in the bay. On the largest boat he could just make out Mr Abramovich, who still looked good for his fifty-nine years. On a slightly smaller vessel the elderly Richard Branson appeared to be tucking into a hearty breakfast. He wasn't sure who owned the third boat, but the three semi-naked women on board were already attracting the attention of the paparazzi, who were pointing telephoto lenses at them from their vantage point high on the cliffs above. It was a laborious job hanging around in the bushes all day, but the money they could get from the tabloids for one good snap of a celebrity would be enough to pay for a couple of days' parking on the meters which ran along the clifftop, so it was well worth the inconvenience. Just then Victoria Beckham came into view on the sun terrace. Pierre de Saveloy opened the French window onto the terrace and went outside to greet her.
'Good morning,' he shouted. 'All ready for the big event?'
'We're getting there,' replied Victoria. 'Everything will be ready for the second of May. This will be the biggest fiftieth birthday party ever - David is really looking forward to it.'
'Well, I'm just glad that you chose to celebrate it here,' replied de Saveloy.
'Oh, we wouldn't go anywhere else. To tell you the truth, Dubai and the Maldives have had their day, and of course all the chic Mediterranean resorts are just too hot now.'
'Yes, well, we were lucky enough to have consultants tell us that eighteen years ago. Of course, the usual naysayers said they were talking out of their arse and just padding out a lame presentation with a lot of scientific claptrap, but those High Priests and Priestesses of Negativity have all been proved wrong.'
'Oh, don't you just hate negative people?' said Victoria. 'I had exactly the same experience with people saying I was utterly talentless and couldn't sing, but I showed them.'
With that a siren began wailing.
'What's that?' asked Victoria.
'Oh, probably some pleb has got lost and wandered up to the entrance,' said de Saveloy. 'Nothing to worry about.'
'Oh, right. Well, I'd better be going, because we're off down to that new casino again today. It's absolutely fantastic - have you been?'
'Of course I have; it's the jewel in the crown, what wealthy people come to Westphalia-on-Sea for.'
Down at the heavily guarded entrance a man had indeed tried to gain access to the complex.
'What do you want?' asked one of the security guards in a gruff voice.
'I just wanted to come in and have a drink and have a look round. I heard this was the place where that murder happened; you know, the man they couldn't hang.'
'How did you get here?'
'I walked down the path.'
'Hmm, I'm not sure that's allowed. We're really only open to people who arrive in yachts or very expensive cars. I'll have to radio through for clearance.'
After a short conversation on his walkie-talkie the security guard waved the man through, with the words 'OK one drink, and my colleague will escort you to make sure you keep to the designated areas.'
As they walked into the complex the man said 'My grandmother told me the story. Apparently this place used to be really picturesque, with trees and stuff.'
'Yeah, well that's was then and this is now,' said the guard. 'If people had wanted picturesque or quaint they would have said so a long time ago when all this was at the planning stage. Anyway, trees are just a bloody nuisance. Look at it now - concrete, tarmac, and everything nice and new. And look at the people - no riff-raff, as it should be. You want to stop thinking about how things were in the past and start living in the present; and the future.'
The man went up to the bar and ordered a coffee and a muffin. The barman placed it in front of him, and in heavily accented English said: 'Zat vill be nineteen eighty-four. No vait, I make mistake - tventy tventy-five.'
Chapter 33 In which Pangloss accidentally speaks to some locals
Down at theTown Hall in Westphalia-on-Sea Dr Pangloss was in buoyant mood as he was expecting representatives from yet another firm of consultants.
'They're on their way up,' he said to his trusty deputy, Ahmad Hatter. 'Open the door and show them in.'
Hatter opened the door and ushered in the man and woman who were approaching.
'Sit down, sit down,' urged Pangloss. 'I'm in a bit of a hurry, so let's make this quick. I've got to go and look at Christmas fairy lights on people's houses in a minute. Now, what do you think we should do to regenerate the town centre?'
'Er, drastically lower the business rates to kick start things, and put in some public toilets at the Hold-on Centre?' said the man on the left.
'Brilliant! You people really have got your finger on the pulse, haven't you? Now what do you think of my plans for a new business park out at Edgycombe Lane?'
This time the woman on the right spoke: 'Not much - I think it will just be another sprawl eating into the green belt which will take more business away from the already deserted town centre.'
'Blimey, I hadn't thought of it like that - maybe we'll have a rethink on that one. You guys are razor sharp today. I'd better write this down. OK, one last question - how do we start bringing in more tourists?'
'Start with some market research,' they said, almost in harmony.
'Hmm, market research, said Pangloss. I've heard of that. Just remind me, what is it exactly?'
'You know, asking people who holiday in the UK what they look for in a destination, that sort of thing. So you can make some sensible decisions instead of just saying the first daft thing that comes into your head.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said Pangloss. 'It's all coming back to me now.' On the notepad in front of him he wrote in capitals 'DON'T SAY THE FIRST DAFT THING THAT COMES INTO YOUR HEAD'. 'Well, I suppose you people want paying. Well, I know you've only been here five minutes but that advice has been priceless. Hatter! Get the chequebook. Now what was it, fifty grand?'
'Fifty grand? said the man on the left. 'What for?'
'Your consultancy fee, of course.'
'We're not consultants,' said the man.
'Well who the bloody hell are you then?'
'Well, nobody really. We just came in to pay our council tax. We're just two ordinary locals. I'm Jack Muttock, and this is Irene Dalloway.'
'Local, eh? I wondered why you were speaking in that strange way,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, sir, local sir, not loike you.'
'Oh, I'm a local as well,' said Pangloss.
'Really? Well, you don't talk loike us, do 'ee?'
'No, I went away to school - to avoid people like you, and your strange vowels. Anyway, I'd love you to stay and chat, but you're obviously in the wrong place. Hang on though; if you're not consultants, where did you get all those brilliant ideas from?'
'Well, it's just common sense really. And you can read it in the paper on the letters page a lot of the time - there's plen'y o' folk with good ideas out there. Well, it's not rocket science, is it?'
'Isn't it? said Pangloss. 'OK, well, you can see yourself out, can't you?'
Pangloss suddenly wondered if he could save some money on consultancy fees if there were locals who could come up with ideas for free. Just as this thought was working its way through the grey matter in his head two smartly dressed men came through the door.
'Dr Pangloss, said the first one, taking his hand and shaking it vigorously, I'm Robert Hawayun and this is my colleague, Cedric Shight.'
'So you're HS consultants, based in Newcastle - Hawayun Shight?'
'At your service.'
'Do you know what, gents,' began Pangloss, thinking on his feet. 'There's been a bit of a mix up, and I don't think I need any more consultants just at the minute.'
'Oh, lots of folk say that, said Cedric, especially after they've just received our first invoice. But they are invariably wrong. Everybody needs consultants. You just might not be fully aware of the fact at the moment. For example, you're in a right old two and eight with your brand aren't you? You don't know if you're in the Cote de Westphalia, or English Phalia or just plain old Phalia, do you?'
'Well, I suppose we're in a bit of a mess with that at the moment' stammered Pangloss, but I'm sure we can sort that out for ourselves.'
'Sort it out yourselves? This is a brand we're talking about, not just a name, you know. And that brand is going to need developing and managing. I can assure you that it's much too big a job to tackle without consultants.'
'Oh, come on, you're not serious are you?'
'Not serious? I've never been more serious in my life. Don't underestimate the power of a brand. And don't underestimate what a consultant can do for you. You're not just paying for ideas - you're paying professionals who can dress up everyday ideas in consultant speak. It's a priceless commodity in your line of work, and it doesn't come cheap. You'd better ringfence a quarter of million for the next couple of years - this is not an overnight job - there's no quick fix to your brand problem.'
'A quarter of a million?! asked Pangloss in a rather high-pitched voice.
'Absolutely, interjected mr Hawayun. But don't worry, you'll get your money's worth. Rest assured that our team of highly trained research staff will quantify the proposition and interrogate the brief until it confesses it's strengths. This brand should fight with it's trousers down but at the same time put a reassuring arm around the consumer and lead him into the house for a nice cup of tea and a chocolate hobnob.
'Well, if you put it like that ... said Pangloss, I suppose I could find a quarter of a mil from somewhere.'
'Oh we do put it like that, Dr Pangloss, we do put it like that,' said Mr Hawayun. That's precisely why we can command fees that some people might consider, ... er, slightly above the average.'
'I see,' said Dr Pangloss. Glancing out of the window he saw Mr Muttock and Mrs Dalloway walking down the road. 'Exorbitant might be a better word.'
'Slightly above the average or exorbitant,' said Mr Hawayun. Let's not argue over the semantics when you're going to be getting so much added value.'
'They're on their way up,' he said to his trusty deputy, Ahmad Hatter. 'Open the door and show them in.'
Hatter opened the door and ushered in the man and woman who were approaching.
'Sit down, sit down,' urged Pangloss. 'I'm in a bit of a hurry, so let's make this quick. I've got to go and look at Christmas fairy lights on people's houses in a minute. Now, what do you think we should do to regenerate the town centre?'
'Er, drastically lower the business rates to kick start things, and put in some public toilets at the Hold-on Centre?' said the man on the left.
'Brilliant! You people really have got your finger on the pulse, haven't you? Now what do you think of my plans for a new business park out at Edgycombe Lane?'
This time the woman on the right spoke: 'Not much - I think it will just be another sprawl eating into the green belt which will take more business away from the already deserted town centre.'
'Blimey, I hadn't thought of it like that - maybe we'll have a rethink on that one. You guys are razor sharp today. I'd better write this down. OK, one last question - how do we start bringing in more tourists?'
'Start with some market research,' they said, almost in harmony.
'Hmm, market research, said Pangloss. I've heard of that. Just remind me, what is it exactly?'
'You know, asking people who holiday in the UK what they look for in a destination, that sort of thing. So you can make some sensible decisions instead of just saying the first daft thing that comes into your head.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said Pangloss. 'It's all coming back to me now.' On the notepad in front of him he wrote in capitals 'DON'T SAY THE FIRST DAFT THING THAT COMES INTO YOUR HEAD'. 'Well, I suppose you people want paying. Well, I know you've only been here five minutes but that advice has been priceless. Hatter! Get the chequebook. Now what was it, fifty grand?'
'Fifty grand? said the man on the left. 'What for?'
'Your consultancy fee, of course.'
'We're not consultants,' said the man.
'Well who the bloody hell are you then?'
'Well, nobody really. We just came in to pay our council tax. We're just two ordinary locals. I'm Jack Muttock, and this is Irene Dalloway.'
'Local, eh? I wondered why you were speaking in that strange way,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, sir, local sir, not loike you.'
'Oh, I'm a local as well,' said Pangloss.
'Really? Well, you don't talk loike us, do 'ee?'
'No, I went away to school - to avoid people like you, and your strange vowels. Anyway, I'd love you to stay and chat, but you're obviously in the wrong place. Hang on though; if you're not consultants, where did you get all those brilliant ideas from?'
'Well, it's just common sense really. And you can read it in the paper on the letters page a lot of the time - there's plen'y o' folk with good ideas out there. Well, it's not rocket science, is it?'
'Isn't it? said Pangloss. 'OK, well, you can see yourself out, can't you?'
Pangloss suddenly wondered if he could save some money on consultancy fees if there were locals who could come up with ideas for free. Just as this thought was working its way through the grey matter in his head two smartly dressed men came through the door.
'Dr Pangloss, said the first one, taking his hand and shaking it vigorously, I'm Robert Hawayun and this is my colleague, Cedric Shight.'
'So you're HS consultants, based in Newcastle - Hawayun Shight?'
'At your service.'
'Do you know what, gents,' began Pangloss, thinking on his feet. 'There's been a bit of a mix up, and I don't think I need any more consultants just at the minute.'
'Oh, lots of folk say that, said Cedric, especially after they've just received our first invoice. But they are invariably wrong. Everybody needs consultants. You just might not be fully aware of the fact at the moment. For example, you're in a right old two and eight with your brand aren't you? You don't know if you're in the Cote de Westphalia, or English Phalia or just plain old Phalia, do you?'
'Well, I suppose we're in a bit of a mess with that at the moment' stammered Pangloss, but I'm sure we can sort that out for ourselves.'
'Sort it out yourselves? This is a brand we're talking about, not just a name, you know. And that brand is going to need developing and managing. I can assure you that it's much too big a job to tackle without consultants.'
'Oh, come on, you're not serious are you?'
'Not serious? I've never been more serious in my life. Don't underestimate the power of a brand. And don't underestimate what a consultant can do for you. You're not just paying for ideas - you're paying professionals who can dress up everyday ideas in consultant speak. It's a priceless commodity in your line of work, and it doesn't come cheap. You'd better ringfence a quarter of million for the next couple of years - this is not an overnight job - there's no quick fix to your brand problem.'
'A quarter of a million?! asked Pangloss in a rather high-pitched voice.
'Absolutely, interjected mr Hawayun. But don't worry, you'll get your money's worth. Rest assured that our team of highly trained research staff will quantify the proposition and interrogate the brief until it confesses it's strengths. This brand should fight with it's trousers down but at the same time put a reassuring arm around the consumer and lead him into the house for a nice cup of tea and a chocolate hobnob.
'Well, if you put it like that ... said Pangloss, I suppose I could find a quarter of a mil from somewhere.'
'Oh we do put it like that, Dr Pangloss, we do put it like that,' said Mr Hawayun. That's precisely why we can command fees that some people might consider, ... er, slightly above the average.'
'I see,' said Dr Pangloss. Glancing out of the window he saw Mr Muttock and Mrs Dalloway walking down the road. 'Exorbitant might be a better word.'
'Slightly above the average or exorbitant,' said Mr Hawayun. Let's not argue over the semantics when you're going to be getting so much added value.'
Chapter 32 In which Charlie Windsor has a moment of self-doubt
While Loretta Martin was enjoying tea and a chat with the logician, Charlie Windsor had arrived home and was just turning his computer on. He sat down with a sigh as the screen flicked into life. The last few days had shaken him, and now he was considering his strategy he was beginning to wonder if it was all really worth it. He thought about his position. Here he was trying to raise his profile, writing bloody letters about the EU to the paper and then waiting a couple of days to see them in print. And then he had to pick another topic and start again with another letter. Since Pangloss had been elected as mayor Charlie had practically been eclipsed. Yes, bloody Pangloss, who Charlie himself had helped reserve a seat in first class on the gravy train. Good God, how had this come about? He had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea in 2002 and spent every waking moment trying to get his face in the paper and to ingratiate himself with the locals, and now Pangloss was upstaging him at every turn. An estate agent after all, and to add insult to injury, all he had to do was fart, and he'd get a three-page spread in the Westphalia Express. There he was, safe in his job until 2011, while Charlie would have to face the electorate in 2010 or before. And what if he failed to get himself elected then? Would the party allow him a third attempt? He could just imagine the party's response: 'Damn good job you've done old boy, but maybe it's time to give a local man a chance.'
And who would that local man be? Why, none other than Dr Pangloss himself, he shouldn't wonder.
Charlie tried to put these depressing thoughts out of his mind and logged in to his blog. He checked how many people had voted in his 'days in prison without being charged' poll. The screen told him it was twenty-nine. It had been running for about two weeks.
'Twenty-fucking-nine!' said Charlie despondently under his breath.
'What's that darling?' came his wife's voice from the kitchen.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Charlie. He clicked onto the Piddlebackside blog - it was becoming something of an obsession. The bloggers had started another poll, and they had already had sixty-nine votes. Sixty-nine in two days, thought Charlie, and there'll be a few more this evening, no doubt. He began to consider whether in this case there was such a thing as bad publicity, contrary to the old advertisers' mantra. Was it better that he was often a key character on the Piddlebackside blog, or would it have been better to remain in the relative obscurity of his own little blog? Did he want to be known as the loyal supporter of Dr Pangloss, or would he prefer to just tap out postings for twenty-nine people to leisurely read over two weeks? Hmm, it was becoming rather philosophical, and he felt that he needed a drink. Scrolling down and reading the Piddlebackside blog, he noticed his character, Philip Eton, was just mixing himself a Gin Fizz; gin, lemon juice and a little sugar shaken over ice and topped up with soda water. Haven't had one of those in ages, thought Charlie. Maybe I'll have the same - no, wait a minute. This was ridiculous. He was actually being influenced by the blog. Wait, no he wasn't. He was just being paranoid. This was a pure coincidence; it had to be. Everyone's ready for a drink when they get home from work.
Charlie stared blankly at the computer screen, waiting for inspiration to strike and provide a topic to write about. Moan about Brian Localbloke? Hmm, probably have to lay off that for a while - negative campaigning and all that. 'Education?' he mumbled to himself. No, best stay away from that - he couldn't really remember if the Tories were currently in favour of grammar schools or against them after the last Cameron debacle. The war in Iraq? No, steer clear, they had definitely supported that fiasco. Oh well, he thought, as he began tapping lightly on the keys, might as well do the predictable thing and focus attention on dodgy donations to the Labour Party. At least the Tories were looking slightly less sleazy than Labour now. It wasn't much of a story, thought Charlie, but if only twenty-nine people are going to read it I suppose it doesn't really matter. Just then his wife appeared.
'What's up?' she said. 'You look all done in.'
'Oh, you know, just wondering if it's all worth it, that's all,' replied Charlie without turning round.
'Well maybe this'll cheer you up,' she said. She placed a tall glass next to his mouse pad and then began gently rubbing his shoulders.
'What's that?' he asked, nodding at the glass, still typing.
'Gin fizz,' she said, still rubbing. 'My, you do feel tense.'
And who would that local man be? Why, none other than Dr Pangloss himself, he shouldn't wonder.
Charlie tried to put these depressing thoughts out of his mind and logged in to his blog. He checked how many people had voted in his 'days in prison without being charged' poll. The screen told him it was twenty-nine. It had been running for about two weeks.
'Twenty-fucking-nine!' said Charlie despondently under his breath.
'What's that darling?' came his wife's voice from the kitchen.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Charlie. He clicked onto the Piddlebackside blog - it was becoming something of an obsession. The bloggers had started another poll, and they had already had sixty-nine votes. Sixty-nine in two days, thought Charlie, and there'll be a few more this evening, no doubt. He began to consider whether in this case there was such a thing as bad publicity, contrary to the old advertisers' mantra. Was it better that he was often a key character on the Piddlebackside blog, or would it have been better to remain in the relative obscurity of his own little blog? Did he want to be known as the loyal supporter of Dr Pangloss, or would he prefer to just tap out postings for twenty-nine people to leisurely read over two weeks? Hmm, it was becoming rather philosophical, and he felt that he needed a drink. Scrolling down and reading the Piddlebackside blog, he noticed his character, Philip Eton, was just mixing himself a Gin Fizz; gin, lemon juice and a little sugar shaken over ice and topped up with soda water. Haven't had one of those in ages, thought Charlie. Maybe I'll have the same - no, wait a minute. This was ridiculous. He was actually being influenced by the blog. Wait, no he wasn't. He was just being paranoid. This was a pure coincidence; it had to be. Everyone's ready for a drink when they get home from work.
Charlie stared blankly at the computer screen, waiting for inspiration to strike and provide a topic to write about. Moan about Brian Localbloke? Hmm, probably have to lay off that for a while - negative campaigning and all that. 'Education?' he mumbled to himself. No, best stay away from that - he couldn't really remember if the Tories were currently in favour of grammar schools or against them after the last Cameron debacle. The war in Iraq? No, steer clear, they had definitely supported that fiasco. Oh well, he thought, as he began tapping lightly on the keys, might as well do the predictable thing and focus attention on dodgy donations to the Labour Party. At least the Tories were looking slightly less sleazy than Labour now. It wasn't much of a story, thought Charlie, but if only twenty-nine people are going to read it I suppose it doesn't really matter. Just then his wife appeared.
'What's up?' she said. 'You look all done in.'
'Oh, you know, just wondering if it's all worth it, that's all,' replied Charlie without turning round.
'Well maybe this'll cheer you up,' she said. She placed a tall glass next to his mouse pad and then began gently rubbing his shoulders.
'What's that?' he asked, nodding at the glass, still typing.
'Gin fizz,' she said, still rubbing. 'My, you do feel tense.'
Chapter 31 In which the logician explains why a tactical vote for the Lib-Dems is essential
'So are you saying that the Piddlebackside blog is not just a bit of fun? That there's a serious side to it?' asked Loretta, her hands cupped around a mug of tea.
'Absolutely. The key here is the internet - it has given ordinary people a voice, enables like-minded people to connect with each other, and allows people to challenge the opinions of the mainstream media. For example, look at the last census in 2001. Out of 129,706 Westphalians 800 put their religion down as 'Jedi' after emails were circulated encouraging people to do so. I know 'Jedi' hasn't been listed as an official religion, but it demonstrates the power of mass communication.'
'I see. So you're saying the bloggers are trying to influence the way people think and vote?'
'Of course. First of all, in the realm of local government it allows for a much more balanced view of Dr Pangloss's actions. It may be my imagination, but there seems to have been a certain reduction in the number of his big ideas which have been publicized since the bloggers started. And secondly, where the next general election is concerned, it could have a real impact on the outcome of a key marginal like Westphalia-on-Sea if people realise that the only way to make their vote count in a first-past-the-post system is to vote tactically. But perhaps more importantly, the internet has provided the first step towards more independent thought. Here read this, particularly the last two sentences.'
He twisted the computer screen so Loretta could see it, and she silently read:
'Absolutely. The key here is the internet - it has given ordinary people a voice, enables like-minded people to connect with each other, and allows people to challenge the opinions of the mainstream media. For example, look at the last census in 2001. Out of 129,706 Westphalians 800 put their religion down as 'Jedi' after emails were circulated encouraging people to do so. I know 'Jedi' hasn't been listed as an official religion, but it demonstrates the power of mass communication.'
'I see. So you're saying the bloggers are trying to influence the way people think and vote?'
'Of course. First of all, in the realm of local government it allows for a much more balanced view of Dr Pangloss's actions. It may be my imagination, but there seems to have been a certain reduction in the number of his big ideas which have been publicized since the bloggers started. And secondly, where the next general election is concerned, it could have a real impact on the outcome of a key marginal like Westphalia-on-Sea if people realise that the only way to make their vote count in a first-past-the-post system is to vote tactically. But perhaps more importantly, the internet has provided the first step towards more independent thought. Here read this, particularly the last two sentences.'
He twisted the computer screen so Loretta could see it, and she silently read:
'Private capital tends to become concentrated in few hands, partly because of competition among the capitalists, and partly because technological development and the increasing division of labour encourage the formation of larger units of production at the expense of the smaller ones. The result of these developments is an oligarchy of private capital the enormous power of which cannot be effectively checked even by a democratically organised political society. This is true since the members of legislative bodies are selected by political parties, largely financed or otherwise influenced by private capitalists who, for all practical purposes, separate the electorate from the legislature. The consequence is that the representatives of the people do not in fact sufficiently protect the interests of the underprivileged sections of the population. Moreover, under existing conditions, private capitalists inevitably control, directly or indirectly, the main sources of information (press, radio, education). It is thus extremely difficult, and indeed in most cases quite impossible, for the individual citizen to come to objective conclusions and to make intelligent use of his political rights.'
When she had finished reading she looked at him and said: 'Yes, when I think of the influence of Rupert Murdoch, the big supermarkets, international oil barons and Lord Ashcroft bankrolling the Tory Party it all seems very apposite. Did you write it?'
'No I didn't, I'm afraid. Einstein wrote it back in 1949, but as you say, it all rings pretty true today.'
'Even so, what point are you making? That the internet will enable us to take on big business and the media corporations?'
'Not exactly, but used intelligently it has the potential to bring about victory on a much smaller scale - keeping the Tories out of Westphalia-on-Sea at the next election, for example. And don't forget Lao Tzu's famous quote: 'A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step'. Do you think when Swampy climbed his first tree and became an eco-warrior he ever would have thought that ten years later the Tories would be rushing to redesign their logo and tell everyone how much they cared about the environment?'
'Yes, I've often wondered if anyone is actually taken in by all this drivel about 'green this' and 'eco-friendly that',' said Loretta.
'I doubt it. Anyway, after stealing the Tories' clothes and sticking with a 'right-wing' agenda it would appear that Gordon Brown and New Labour are now presiding over an economic meltdown of their own making. However, the idea that a slightly different right-wing agenda under the leadership of old Etonians and ex-members of the Bullingdon club would be a better option is simply the stuff of nightmares, so anything these bloggers can do to avert that particular disaster is all right by me - and of course, if we get to send Charlie Windsor packing in the process, so much the better.'
'Ooh, absolutely, cooed Loretta. I'll certainly spread the word that anything other than a Lib-Dem vote is a wasted vote. So how will the establishment, or the Tories, react to the blog?'
'Remember the Gandhi quote? they've already tried to ignore it, and ridicule it, so presumably they will try to fight it as well - and then we'll win.'Chapter 30 In which Loretta Martin meets a Logician
While Charlie Windsor was busy explaining the earth shattering importance of Tory visitors to the Cote de Westphalia to bemused locals Loretta Martin was walking home through the town. Jumping smartly to one side to avoid being run over by the number 12 bus, she stepped onto the escalator which took her to the upper floor where you were safe from traffic and shoppers. Gazing in the windows of the deserted shops, her eye was caught by the bright colours of a small shopfront which she had not noticed before. On the window the word 'LOGICIAN' was painted in purple. 'Have you fortune told, love?' came a voice from behind her. 'Er, no thanks,' said Loretta, as she turned around. I don't really believe in all that stuff.'
'Well if not your fortune, how about the answers to any other questions you may have?'
'But I can get the answers to any questions from Google for free, can't I?'
'Not always. Why not try me? Eugene Adamov at your service.'
Loretta thought for a moment then produced a scrap of paper from her handbag. 'OK, she said, tell me what this means: On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Ah, the Piddlebackside blogger? You'd better come in.'
'Well, what does it mean,' she said, following him into the rather cluttered shop.
'It means you can't kill an idea with gun shots, or put it in handcuffs. It's a quote from Louise Michel - she was with the Communards in Paris.'
'What, the eighties band?'
'No, the Communards were a group which rebelled against the rule of Napoleon III and briefly ruled Paris in April and May 1871. In a couple of months they implemented all kinds of popular reforms, such as the separation of Church and State, votes for women, and so on.'
'So why are we reading quotes like that from a time so far in the past that it has no relevance today?'
'That's a very common mistake to make - to assume the past has no connection to the present. People do it all the time, largely through ignorance. If you don't know much about the past it is tempting to completely disregard it, particularly where politics is concerned.'
'How do you mean?' asked Loretta.
'Well, for example, many people assume that society and our present political system have always been the same and will always remain the same. Of course a quick look at recent history shows that this is absolute nonsense - we are living in a constantly changing society, and it is a fact that most change for the better is only brought about through political struggle. For example, go back ten years and there was no minimum wage. Go back thirty years and throwing bananas at black footballers was deemed acceptable by many people. Go back ninety years and women were not allowed to vote. Go back ninety-five years and only 58% of men could vote. People are always resistant to change, particularly those people who stand to have their power and wealth eroded by change, so they do their level best to deride any new ideas which might benefit the majority. Gandhi said: "First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win." Take my first example of the minimum wage - in 1997 the Tories were opposed to it, now the idea of abolishing it would be considered a terrible step backwards. Now think about so called long-haired left-wing hippy tree-huggers. They have been derided by the political mainstream since the 1960s, but suddenly politicians are falling over themselves in an effort to appear green, and with the continuing bloodshed in Iraq people are now saying 'what's so funny about peace love and understanding?' Still, I think it will be some time before we see a headline in the Daily Mail saying WE CONCEDE - LEFTY HIPPIES WERE RIGHT.'
'I see. So people that say things like 'I don't vote - politicians and parties are all the same' are a bit misguided?'
'Not so much misguided as downright stupid. People seem to believe that all parties have the same goals, and that changing the governing party will have no effect on society; clearly this is not true: just one event - the introduction of the minimum wage - has proved that. It's time for people to wake up to what politics is about. Anyone who fails to recognise that all the major advances in society over the last century have come about through political activism against the establishment, and in political terms 'the establishment' is the Tories, is quite mad. Shall I put the kettle on?'
'Well if not your fortune, how about the answers to any other questions you may have?'
'But I can get the answers to any questions from Google for free, can't I?'
'Not always. Why not try me? Eugene Adamov at your service.'
Loretta thought for a moment then produced a scrap of paper from her handbag. 'OK, she said, tell me what this means: On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Ah, the Piddlebackside blogger? You'd better come in.'
'Well, what does it mean,' she said, following him into the rather cluttered shop.
'It means you can't kill an idea with gun shots, or put it in handcuffs. It's a quote from Louise Michel - she was with the Communards in Paris.'
'What, the eighties band?'
'No, the Communards were a group which rebelled against the rule of Napoleon III and briefly ruled Paris in April and May 1871. In a couple of months they implemented all kinds of popular reforms, such as the separation of Church and State, votes for women, and so on.'
'So why are we reading quotes like that from a time so far in the past that it has no relevance today?'
'That's a very common mistake to make - to assume the past has no connection to the present. People do it all the time, largely through ignorance. If you don't know much about the past it is tempting to completely disregard it, particularly where politics is concerned.'
'How do you mean?' asked Loretta.
'Well, for example, many people assume that society and our present political system have always been the same and will always remain the same. Of course a quick look at recent history shows that this is absolute nonsense - we are living in a constantly changing society, and it is a fact that most change for the better is only brought about through political struggle. For example, go back ten years and there was no minimum wage. Go back thirty years and throwing bananas at black footballers was deemed acceptable by many people. Go back ninety years and women were not allowed to vote. Go back ninety-five years and only 58% of men could vote. People are always resistant to change, particularly those people who stand to have their power and wealth eroded by change, so they do their level best to deride any new ideas which might benefit the majority. Gandhi said: "First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win." Take my first example of the minimum wage - in 1997 the Tories were opposed to it, now the idea of abolishing it would be considered a terrible step backwards. Now think about so called long-haired left-wing hippy tree-huggers. They have been derided by the political mainstream since the 1960s, but suddenly politicians are falling over themselves in an effort to appear green, and with the continuing bloodshed in Iraq people are now saying 'what's so funny about peace love and understanding?' Still, I think it will be some time before we see a headline in the Daily Mail saying WE CONCEDE - LEFTY HIPPIES WERE RIGHT.'
'I see. So people that say things like 'I don't vote - politicians and parties are all the same' are a bit misguided?'
'Not so much misguided as downright stupid. People seem to believe that all parties have the same goals, and that changing the governing party will have no effect on society; clearly this is not true: just one event - the introduction of the minimum wage - has proved that. It's time for people to wake up to what politics is about. Anyone who fails to recognise that all the major advances in society over the last century have come about through political activism against the establishment, and in political terms 'the establishment' is the Tories, is quite mad. Shall I put the kettle on?'
Chapter 29 In which the Westphalians learn about the visits of Tory grandees
Charlie Windsor felt reinvigorated after deciding to strike out and make an impression on the voters of the Cote de Westphalia, or whatever Pangloss and his consultants were calling it at the moment. After all, Charlie himself was a management consultant, so if anyone could come up with top-notch ideas to focus people's attention on why they should vote Conservative it was him.
First of all he told people how two high profile Tory shadow ministers had visited Westphalia-on-Sea. He told everyone about Michael Gove's visit. And the Westphalians were both honoured and very excited, and said: 'Who?' And Charlie said: 'You know, that bloke who used to work for Rupert Murdoch at The Times and describes himself as a neo-Conservative.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oh, we can't stand him.' Then Charlie told them about Andrew Mitchell's visit, and the Westphalians were equally excited and said: 'Oo?' And Charlie said 'You know, the charming and intelligent Andrew Mitchell.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oo? Us 'uv never bleddy 'eard uv 'im.'
And Charlie said: 'for goodness sake, he's the shadow Secretary of State for International Development and he came to look at the proposals for a new library in Eastphalia. He obviously cares pasionately about the people of Eastphalia.'
And the people said: 'Are you sure it's not because the Tories desperately want to win this seat at the next election and want to give you some publicity?'
And Charlie Windsor said: 'Of course not, politics isn't like that. They came because they care about you as much as I do. That's why I uprooted my family and came to live among you straw-chewing yokels - it was a selfless act of love. If, in the process of caring, I happen to become an MP and draw a fat salary, it will be pure (yet happy) coincidence.'
Naturally this reassured most of the simple folk of the Cote de Westphalia, but one or two had lingering doubts. 'What's wrong with the MP we've got? they asked. He grew up here and understands us, and even supports Westphalia United.'
And Charlie said: 'Oh, for goodness sake, how many times do I have to tell you people? He's Brian Uselessbloke, he never has any big ideas, he's not a Conservative and worst of all he didn't support having an elected mayor. I, on the other hand, have gone on record as saying that Dr Pangloss is the best thing to happen to Westphalia-on-Sea in a generation, and so do a large and growing number of the people who live here.'
'And the Westphalians said: 'You what? Best thing in a generation? We think you bin out in the sun too long, buey.'
And then Charlie began to wish he hadn't supported Pangloss quite so vociferously in the past, and hoped that over time people would forget some of the things he had said and written, and really wished he hadn't brought all this up again because it probably wouldn't help his cause.
First of all he told people how two high profile Tory shadow ministers had visited Westphalia-on-Sea. He told everyone about Michael Gove's visit. And the Westphalians were both honoured and very excited, and said: 'Who?' And Charlie said: 'You know, that bloke who used to work for Rupert Murdoch at The Times and describes himself as a neo-Conservative.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oh, we can't stand him.' Then Charlie told them about Andrew Mitchell's visit, and the Westphalians were equally excited and said: 'Oo?' And Charlie said 'You know, the charming and intelligent Andrew Mitchell.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oo? Us 'uv never bleddy 'eard uv 'im.'
And Charlie said: 'for goodness sake, he's the shadow Secretary of State for International Development and he came to look at the proposals for a new library in Eastphalia. He obviously cares pasionately about the people of Eastphalia.'
And the people said: 'Are you sure it's not because the Tories desperately want to win this seat at the next election and want to give you some publicity?'
And Charlie Windsor said: 'Of course not, politics isn't like that. They came because they care about you as much as I do. That's why I uprooted my family and came to live among you straw-chewing yokels - it was a selfless act of love. If, in the process of caring, I happen to become an MP and draw a fat salary, it will be pure (yet happy) coincidence.'
Naturally this reassured most of the simple folk of the Cote de Westphalia, but one or two had lingering doubts. 'What's wrong with the MP we've got? they asked. He grew up here and understands us, and even supports Westphalia United.'
And Charlie said: 'Oh, for goodness sake, how many times do I have to tell you people? He's Brian Uselessbloke, he never has any big ideas, he's not a Conservative and worst of all he didn't support having an elected mayor. I, on the other hand, have gone on record as saying that Dr Pangloss is the best thing to happen to Westphalia-on-Sea in a generation, and so do a large and growing number of the people who live here.'
'And the Westphalians said: 'You what? Best thing in a generation? We think you bin out in the sun too long, buey.'
And then Charlie began to wish he hadn't supported Pangloss quite so vociferously in the past, and hoped that over time people would forget some of the things he had said and written, and really wished he hadn't brought all this up again because it probably wouldn't help his cause.
PLEASE NOTE
As the 17th November is a special feast day in Westphalia-on-Sea (the Day of San Pedro de Cocinero), commemorating its favourite son, there will be no more blog entries until Tuesday 20th November.
Chapter 28 In which Charlie realises that the problem with political jokes is that they get elected
Charlie Windsor woke up sweating. It was only a nightmare, but it was one he had had before. In it he was on the stump, doing what he did best - negative campaigning. As he came to the end of his sentence his voice began to rise as he uttered his rhetorical question: 'what have the Lib Dems and Labour ever done for us?' Instead of the applause he was expecting, a voice shouted out 'old age pensions!', then another shouted 'the National Health Service!' Pretty soon there were contributions from all around his audience: 'Unemployment benefit!' 'the minimum wage!' 'Windfall tax on privatised utilities after the Tories sold them off too cheaply! 'Votes for men!' 'Votes for women!' It was starting to sound like a bloody film script, but thankfully he woke up before it got any more depressing.
Charlie recalled the words of Martin Leyland, about having to distance himself from the lame duck mayor. Worryingly, at the moment he was playing second fiddle to the mayor, yet having to openly support his every idea, his every political move. This wasn't how it was supposed to have turned out. As he lay in bed he remembered when he had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea. He remembered how he had gradually raised his profile through a continual process of well-timed exposure in the media. He built himself up to be the voice of the Conservatives in the area, and now look at the situation. Dr Pangloss had come from the obscurity of estate agency to be at the top of the Tory heap, and Charlie Windsor, as his campaign manager, had helped put him there. Pangloss was in the paper every day, and now Charlie was having to work extra hard just to stand still in terms of self-publicity. The mayor had his own column in the paper, and so did Charlie's rival, Brian Localbloke. But what did Charlie himself have? A blog read by about twelve people, and the odd letter in the Westphalia Express, where he had to compete for space with people giving thanks to strangers for helping them after a fall in the local supermarket. And you couldn't just write letters out of thin air - they had to be linked to something. When there was nothing interesting locally to write about he couldn't just write 'Hey everybody, I'm still here you know, waiting for the election, don't forget about me.' No, at such times he was reduced to commenting on Gordon Brown's policy on the EU Treaty, or pointing out what a dead loss Gordon Brown was if you conveniently forgot that he had been Chancellor of the Exchequer for ten years and was now Prime Minister. The more Charlie considered his position the more disgruntled he became, especially when he remembered that in the good old days before elected mayors it was he, Charlie Windsor, who had been the undisputed ideas man when he rode into town...
... yes, it was the twenty-ninth of April 2003, but Charlie remembered it as if it was yesterday. Martin Aston was in the paper a lot, with his famous car number plate 8ULL 5H1T. Charlie had sat down with Martin and a few others and come up with some cracking ideas for the future. When the Westphalia Express saw fit to announce that some of the greatest minds on the Cote de Westphalia had been engaged in a little futuristic problem solving it referred to the participants as 'a think-tank group'. And it referred to his '20-20 vision' idea as a 'brainchild'. Yes, he, Charlie Windsor, had headed up a bloody think-tank and had given birth to a brainchild in the same afternoon. A tank full of thinkers and a diminutive cerubellum on legs. And now here he was, playing deputy to the mayor's sheriff. In fact he wasn't even that, because the mayor had a deputy. No, the Westphalia Express didn't come to him for a quote unless all the phones in the Town Hall were going straight to bloody voicemail. Yet back in 2003 it had all been so different. Back then he could suggest turning the clock back to the swinging sixties in Eastphalia to give it a retro look and feel. Yes, he said if you had lampposts and shopfronts from the 1960s visitors would flock into town - it would be shag-tastic, just like an Austin Powers movie. Yes, back then he could come up with an idea every bit as lame as any of Dr Pangloss's, and still get half a page in the Westphalia Express with a big photo as well. That journalist was right - he was going to have to start distancing himself from Pangloss, and start fighting - politics was a dirty business, he thought, but if you wanted an MP's salary you had to jolly well roll your sleeves up get stuck in. Feeling invigorated by this mental pep-talk he jumped out of bed, pulled his Union Jack dressing gown on and saluted the picture of Margaret Thatcher on the wall.
Charlie recalled the words of Martin Leyland, about having to distance himself from the lame duck mayor. Worryingly, at the moment he was playing second fiddle to the mayor, yet having to openly support his every idea, his every political move. This wasn't how it was supposed to have turned out. As he lay in bed he remembered when he had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea. He remembered how he had gradually raised his profile through a continual process of well-timed exposure in the media. He built himself up to be the voice of the Conservatives in the area, and now look at the situation. Dr Pangloss had come from the obscurity of estate agency to be at the top of the Tory heap, and Charlie Windsor, as his campaign manager, had helped put him there. Pangloss was in the paper every day, and now Charlie was having to work extra hard just to stand still in terms of self-publicity. The mayor had his own column in the paper, and so did Charlie's rival, Brian Localbloke. But what did Charlie himself have? A blog read by about twelve people, and the odd letter in the Westphalia Express, where he had to compete for space with people giving thanks to strangers for helping them after a fall in the local supermarket. And you couldn't just write letters out of thin air - they had to be linked to something. When there was nothing interesting locally to write about he couldn't just write 'Hey everybody, I'm still here you know, waiting for the election, don't forget about me.' No, at such times he was reduced to commenting on Gordon Brown's policy on the EU Treaty, or pointing out what a dead loss Gordon Brown was if you conveniently forgot that he had been Chancellor of the Exchequer for ten years and was now Prime Minister. The more Charlie considered his position the more disgruntled he became, especially when he remembered that in the good old days before elected mayors it was he, Charlie Windsor, who had been the undisputed ideas man when he rode into town...
... yes, it was the twenty-ninth of April 2003, but Charlie remembered it as if it was yesterday. Martin Aston was in the paper a lot, with his famous car number plate 8ULL 5H1T. Charlie had sat down with Martin and a few others and come up with some cracking ideas for the future. When the Westphalia Express saw fit to announce that some of the greatest minds on the Cote de Westphalia had been engaged in a little futuristic problem solving it referred to the participants as 'a think-tank group'. And it referred to his '20-20 vision' idea as a 'brainchild'. Yes, he, Charlie Windsor, had headed up a bloody think-tank and had given birth to a brainchild in the same afternoon. A tank full of thinkers and a diminutive cerubellum on legs. And now here he was, playing deputy to the mayor's sheriff. In fact he wasn't even that, because the mayor had a deputy. No, the Westphalia Express didn't come to him for a quote unless all the phones in the Town Hall were going straight to bloody voicemail. Yet back in 2003 it had all been so different. Back then he could suggest turning the clock back to the swinging sixties in Eastphalia to give it a retro look and feel. Yes, he said if you had lampposts and shopfronts from the 1960s visitors would flock into town - it would be shag-tastic, just like an Austin Powers movie. Yes, back then he could come up with an idea every bit as lame as any of Dr Pangloss's, and still get half a page in the Westphalia Express with a big photo as well. That journalist was right - he was going to have to start distancing himself from Pangloss, and start fighting - politics was a dirty business, he thought, but if you wanted an MP's salary you had to jolly well roll your sleeves up get stuck in. Feeling invigorated by this mental pep-talk he jumped out of bed, pulled his Union Jack dressing gown on and saluted the picture of Margaret Thatcher on the wall.
Chapter 27 In which we reflect on what has happened in one month in Westphalia-on-Sea
At this point in the saga some of the people in Westphalia-on-Sea began to take stock of what had been happening in their little town. Just four weeks earlier the first five chapters of the fledgling Piddlebackside blog had been pushed out of the nest and left to fend for themselves on the internet. The political musings of person or persons unknown, at a time when people were becoming increasingly disillusioned with the political process, they were surely not going to interest anyone; Allen Salkin, writing in the New York Times, said 'many blogs have a readership of one, -or at best, the writer, his mother and some guy from grade school who found him on Google'. It was even more bizarre then, that the Piddlebackside blog should buck the trend and develop a relatively large readership in a very short space of time, be featured on local radio and discussed by Members of Parliament. When commentators examined the reasons for its success they found that it appealed to a wide cross-section of society who all had two things in common. Firstly, they all hated their elected leader squandering huge amounts of their hard-earned cash on consultants when the answers to most questions were staring everyone in the face, and secondly, they were utterly fed up with the stream of drivel about grandiose schemes for future prosperity to which they were constantly subjected. It seemed that the people coming up with ideas such as high-speed ferries, brand name changes and turning towns into cities were on a different planet, and as time went on some of the Westphalians began to speculate about which planet it might be. It will probably come as no surprise to many readers to hear that the conclusion reached by most of these amateur astronomers was that this kind of talk could only come from Uranus.
Like any new TV show, film or book, the blog had its fans, but it also had its detractors. These were mainly the people who were deeply involved in peddling the fanciful stories about future prosperity, and selling off bits of Westphalia-on-Sea's beautiful coastline to developers. These were people like the mayor, Dr Pangloss, the Deputy Mayor, Ahmad Hatter, and Charlie Windsor, the Mayor's staunch ally, his campaign manager, and prospective MP. Since it would bore readers to keep reading this list of names we can use a more convenient 'umbrella term' and call them 'the Conservatives', and that way we can include all the people who thought the same way as those three. Now, before any accusations of political bias are made, at this point it should be remembered that all political parties have eye-wateringly stupid ideas from time to time. However, on the Cote de Westphalia it was this group which had an impressive history of repeatedly hiring expensive firms of consultants and then applauding every hare-brained scheme which was presented by them.
So it was then that some of these Conservatives said whoever's writing this blog 'is far too up himself', he's 'arrogant' and 'too clever by half', and that Piddlebackside was a 'little imaginary world'. Of course what they obviously hadn't realised was the reason the blog was so popular was not because Piddlebackside was a little imaginary world, but because it held a mirror up to the real world of Westphalia-on-Sea. From their comments it was also clear that the other thing that Conservatives didn't like was 'clever', especially when it came in quantities 50% bigger than normal. No, they didn't seem to like 'clever', or people that read books and thought for themselves, or people that applied simple logic to everyday life, or people that could string two words together and seemed to know what they were talking about. Conservatives were people who believed they lived in the best of all possible worlds, and if this required an unquestioning belief in all sorts of claptrap, then so be it. In fact in this respect they were not at all unlike the Queen in Through the Looking Glass. In that volume Alice points out that one can't believe impossible things, to which the Queen replies: "I daresay you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Claptrap, as intelligent readers are no doubt aware, can come in many forms: it could be the idea that there are thousands of wealthy visitors waiting to come to Westphalia-on-Sea if only the town had another casino, and fewer pensioners, chavs and young farmers. It could be something as simple as changing the name of a town, or it could be the complicated business of turning a town into a city. Now as most of this kind of claptrap was helpfully reported in the Westphalia Express, Westphalians had plenty of practice in believing it, but unlike the Queen in Carroll's masterpiece it seemed as though they were becoming increasingly unwilling to do so. Indeed, some Westphalians began to sense that there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air.
Like any new TV show, film or book, the blog had its fans, but it also had its detractors. These were mainly the people who were deeply involved in peddling the fanciful stories about future prosperity, and selling off bits of Westphalia-on-Sea's beautiful coastline to developers. These were people like the mayor, Dr Pangloss, the Deputy Mayor, Ahmad Hatter, and Charlie Windsor, the Mayor's staunch ally, his campaign manager, and prospective MP. Since it would bore readers to keep reading this list of names we can use a more convenient 'umbrella term' and call them 'the Conservatives', and that way we can include all the people who thought the same way as those three. Now, before any accusations of political bias are made, at this point it should be remembered that all political parties have eye-wateringly stupid ideas from time to time. However, on the Cote de Westphalia it was this group which had an impressive history of repeatedly hiring expensive firms of consultants and then applauding every hare-brained scheme which was presented by them.
So it was then that some of these Conservatives said whoever's writing this blog 'is far too up himself', he's 'arrogant' and 'too clever by half', and that Piddlebackside was a 'little imaginary world'. Of course what they obviously hadn't realised was the reason the blog was so popular was not because Piddlebackside was a little imaginary world, but because it held a mirror up to the real world of Westphalia-on-Sea. From their comments it was also clear that the other thing that Conservatives didn't like was 'clever', especially when it came in quantities 50% bigger than normal. No, they didn't seem to like 'clever', or people that read books and thought for themselves, or people that applied simple logic to everyday life, or people that could string two words together and seemed to know what they were talking about. Conservatives were people who believed they lived in the best of all possible worlds, and if this required an unquestioning belief in all sorts of claptrap, then so be it. In fact in this respect they were not at all unlike the Queen in Through the Looking Glass. In that volume Alice points out that one can't believe impossible things, to which the Queen replies: "I daresay you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Claptrap, as intelligent readers are no doubt aware, can come in many forms: it could be the idea that there are thousands of wealthy visitors waiting to come to Westphalia-on-Sea if only the town had another casino, and fewer pensioners, chavs and young farmers. It could be something as simple as changing the name of a town, or it could be the complicated business of turning a town into a city. Now as most of this kind of claptrap was helpfully reported in the Westphalia Express, Westphalians had plenty of practice in believing it, but unlike the Queen in Carroll's masterpiece it seemed as though they were becoming increasingly unwilling to do so. Indeed, some Westphalians began to sense that there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air.
Chapter 26 In which Charlie decides to try and outwit the bloggers
As Pangloss and his faithful sidekick Charlie left the Westphalia Express building there was a faint sound of the national anthem. Charlie took his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.
'Mr Windsor?' said the voice at the other end.
'Yes,' said Charlie.
'This is Martin Leyland; I'm a journalist. I wonder if I could have a few words with you - alone?'
'It's him!' hissed Charlie, covering the mouthpiece.
Half an hour later Charlie Windsor was sitting opposite Martin Leyland in the Westphalia-on-Sea Conservative Club.
'The people at the Westphalia Express are going mad looking for you,' said Charlie.
'Well, they only had to pick up the phone book and call me,' replied Leyland.
'Do you mean to say Martin Leyland is your real name?'
'Yeah, why wouldn't it be?'
'Well, I just thought ... you know, with the people at the newspaper not being able to find you ...'
'That lot? They couldn't find their arse in the dark with both hands.'
'Really? Now let me ask you directly: are you the Piddlebackside blogger?'
'No, I'm not, but I know who is.'
'Well, do you mind telling me his name then?'
'Their names. This is too big for just one person; it's a team of writers.'
'Oh. We were becoming convinced it was you.'
'Yes, that was the plan. The clue was in one of the early chapters where misdirection was mentioned. A lot of careful groundwork was laid down in advance - I had to be in on it because I agreed to be the front man. Radio Heaven almost caught me on the hop when they phoned for an interview, but luckily I stalled for time and was able to call the people behind it to see how they wanted to play it.'
'Oh, I didn't realise ...'
'I don't think anybody did. I even told my parents that I was behind it. Telling my mother is an extremely efficient way of disseminating rumour and hearsay around Westphalia-on-Sea, and she's been around a lot longer than the internet, so it would have been foolish not to use such a useful resource.'
'I see; so they still think ...'
'... it's me. Yes,' finished Leyland. Look, everyone is starting to think it's me now, so the radio and the papers will soon lose interest and you'll never find out who's really behind it. The internet allows people to create multiple blogs and personalities under assumed names, and then hide behind the word 'anonymous' to make comments. Nothing is really what it seems. What's important is not who's writing it, but what they're writing. And in your case, how much damage it can do.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right there.'
'Now, the reason I asked to meet you alone was to ask you this - what do you plan to do about your relationship with Pangloss?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, weren't you his campaign manager during the election?'
'Yes.'
'And haven't you been very supportive of all his big ideas?'
'Well, yes. Actually I've had a few big ideas of my own, you know.'
'Yes, I know, said Leyland. We'll come to those all in good time. But for now, you do realise that you have to start distancing yourself from Pangloss, don't you?'
'Do I? Why?'
'Because he's a lame duck mayor, of course. If you keep on supporting him over the next two years your support will slowly ebb away, and with it your dream of becoming an MP - that's a given.'
'Blimey, I hadn't really thought of it in those terms.'
Well, maybe you'd better start thinking in those terms. With hindsight, a Conservative mayor was probably the last thing you needed.'
'Hmm, I really need to think hard about all of what you've told me. I was wondering, do you think I could start a blog that satirized the Piddlebackside blog? Would that work?'
'I doubt it. I mean, who would read it? The real one is heading for 8,000 hits. It's a nice idea, and I'm sure they'd be flattered, but realistically you're not in their league, are you? I mean, what would you say on it?'
'Oh, I'd say I know who they are.'
'And ...?'
'Well, that's it.'
'Hmm, it's a bit lame, if you ask me. What would you call yourself?'
'Something similar to the blogger. I know - Voltaire.'
'Hmm, not very original is it? People will probably just think it's the bloggers throwing out more red herrings and not you being clever, and then you'd have gone to all that trouble for nothing.'
'Well, it's up to you. Good luck with your Piddlebackside.blogspot, and thanks for talking to me.'
'Mr Windsor?' said the voice at the other end.
'Yes,' said Charlie.
'This is Martin Leyland; I'm a journalist. I wonder if I could have a few words with you - alone?'
'It's him!' hissed Charlie, covering the mouthpiece.
Half an hour later Charlie Windsor was sitting opposite Martin Leyland in the Westphalia-on-Sea Conservative Club.
'The people at the Westphalia Express are going mad looking for you,' said Charlie.
'Well, they only had to pick up the phone book and call me,' replied Leyland.
'Do you mean to say Martin Leyland is your real name?'
'Yeah, why wouldn't it be?'
'Well, I just thought ... you know, with the people at the newspaper not being able to find you ...'
'That lot? They couldn't find their arse in the dark with both hands.'
'Really? Now let me ask you directly: are you the Piddlebackside blogger?'
'No, I'm not, but I know who is.'
'Well, do you mind telling me his name then?'
'Their names. This is too big for just one person; it's a team of writers.'
'Oh. We were becoming convinced it was you.'
'Yes, that was the plan. The clue was in one of the early chapters where misdirection was mentioned. A lot of careful groundwork was laid down in advance - I had to be in on it because I agreed to be the front man. Radio Heaven almost caught me on the hop when they phoned for an interview, but luckily I stalled for time and was able to call the people behind it to see how they wanted to play it.'
'Oh, I didn't realise ...'
'I don't think anybody did. I even told my parents that I was behind it. Telling my mother is an extremely efficient way of disseminating rumour and hearsay around Westphalia-on-Sea, and she's been around a lot longer than the internet, so it would have been foolish not to use such a useful resource.'
'I see; so they still think ...'
'... it's me. Yes,' finished Leyland. Look, everyone is starting to think it's me now, so the radio and the papers will soon lose interest and you'll never find out who's really behind it. The internet allows people to create multiple blogs and personalities under assumed names, and then hide behind the word 'anonymous' to make comments. Nothing is really what it seems. What's important is not who's writing it, but what they're writing. And in your case, how much damage it can do.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right there.'
'Now, the reason I asked to meet you alone was to ask you this - what do you plan to do about your relationship with Pangloss?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, weren't you his campaign manager during the election?'
'Yes.'
'And haven't you been very supportive of all his big ideas?'
'Well, yes. Actually I've had a few big ideas of my own, you know.'
'Yes, I know, said Leyland. We'll come to those all in good time. But for now, you do realise that you have to start distancing yourself from Pangloss, don't you?'
'Do I? Why?'
'Because he's a lame duck mayor, of course. If you keep on supporting him over the next two years your support will slowly ebb away, and with it your dream of becoming an MP - that's a given.'
'Blimey, I hadn't really thought of it in those terms.'
Well, maybe you'd better start thinking in those terms. With hindsight, a Conservative mayor was probably the last thing you needed.'
'Hmm, I really need to think hard about all of what you've told me. I was wondering, do you think I could start a blog that satirized the Piddlebackside blog? Would that work?'
'I doubt it. I mean, who would read it? The real one is heading for 8,000 hits. It's a nice idea, and I'm sure they'd be flattered, but realistically you're not in their league, are you? I mean, what would you say on it?'
'Oh, I'd say I know who they are.'
'And ...?'
'Well, that's it.'
'Hmm, it's a bit lame, if you ask me. What would you call yourself?'
'Something similar to the blogger. I know - Voltaire.'
'Hmm, not very original is it? People will probably just think it's the bloggers throwing out more red herrings and not you being clever, and then you'd have gone to all that trouble for nothing.'
'Well, it's up to you. Good luck with your Piddlebackside.blogspot, and thanks for talking to me.'
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
