Easter 2008 was not a happy time for Dr Pangloss. Pleasant as his holiday had been, his cruise up the Panama Canal with a gaggle of friends was but a distant memory now. He had come back to face abuse from the traders who were moaning about the bloody road being closed, and now there was more grief on the horizon. He got on the phone to Derek Poundsign, head of the firm of consultants he was beginning to wish he'd never heard of.
'Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions, Fanny speaking, how may I help you?' came the syrupy voice of Mr Poundsign's PA.
'Put me through to Derek Poundsign please,' said Pangloss curtly, 'it's urgent.'
After a brief pause Mr Poundsign came on the line. 'Pangloss, how the hell are you? I was just think of you as I was flicking through the thesaurus for some inspiration. Hey, what do you of 'beach pods' instead of 'beach huts'? Sounds pretty space age, eh? I'm thinking 21st century, mayoral vision-type concept thingy. I've just doodled something on the back of a fag packet, which I'm pretty excited about - rounded edges and oval windows. I'll get our boys to stick it in a presentation and show you next time we ...'
'My God, don't you ever stop churning out this shit?' interrupted Pangloss. 'Now why have you agreed to do three more presentations on the Cote de Westphalia? I know Jesus got a rough deal at Easter, but at least they only crucified him once.'
'Well, I couldn't really get out of it,' replied Poundsign. 'Your friend Mrs Brolly is quite persuasive, you know.'
'I know how persuasive she is, she's like a dog with a bloody bone, and she is certainly not my friend.'
'Oh, I thought she was part of your team ...'
'No you fool, she's planning on fillng three venues with awkward bastards who are going to pull your stupid bloody vision apart.'
'Now steady on there, Pangloss. We put our heart and soul into that project.'
'Oh, I know, I signed the bloody cheques, if you remember. But I told you all that Garden City and Creative Harbour stuff was crap at the time. I told you people wouldn't forget bullshit on such a grand scale in a hurry. Now when are these meetings scheduled for?'
'Just a minute, I'll have to buzz my PA.' 'Miss Batter, when are those Cote de Westphalia presentations scheduled for?'
'April 1st, April 9th and April 23rd.'
'April ...' began Poundsign.
'Yes, I heard, said Pangloss. 'April Fools' Day? Are you having a laugh?'
'Oh, it'll be fine. We'll be able to answer any ...'
'We? We? Don't think I'm coming to a discussion of the Mayoral Vision on April-bloody-Fools' Day; they'll eat me alive - that Brolly woman is vicious. I'll get Ahmad Hatter to go.'
'But you'll have to come to at least one,' protested Poundsign.
'Why do I? You bloody arranged it.'
'Because it's the Mayoral Vision, remember?'
'Well, we both know the truth about that. Christ, I wish I'd never listened to you lot. OK, look, if I have to go to one I'll go to the one in Eastphalia. I might get a bit more sympathy on my own patch. But if you ask me, it's going to be hell. You can bet Mrs Brolly and her cronies will have been cutting our quotes out of the newspaper for the last six months and will throw them all back at us. It won't just be bloody developers all sipping champagne and tucking into the finger buffet waiting for a chance to get in on the land-grab. It'll be rows of bloody pensioners saying things like 'oh, it's not like it used to be', and 'we don't want to pay to park; we just want to eat our sandwiches and look at the sea.' Thank God we've had the Town Hall soundproofed, that's all I can say. We certainly don't want any leaks now the shit's about to hit the fan. Hang on, I've got an idea - I've been back a fortnight already. I must be due another holiday by now. Derek, I'll call you back.'
Pangloss put the phone down in a hurry and buzzed his secretary. 'Jenny, can you tell me how much holiday I've taken this year?'
'Sure, Dr Pangloss, let me check. ...Er, according to the diary it looks like seven weeks and three days since last April.'
'Right,' said Pangloss. 'Be a love and check if there are any vacancies at Hedonism in Jamaica for April would you? I really feel I need to de-stress.'
Chapter 47 In which the Westphalians listen to the wise words of the Mayor
The little restaurant on the harbourside was packed with the small business owners of Westphalia-on-Sea as they waited in anticipation for the Mayor, his deputy and the Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups to explain how they were going to make amends for their disastrous handling of the cliff face fiasco, which had been reported in the Westphalia Express as 'We Got It Right'. The chairman, Mr Cochran, sensing the bloodlust of the people in the room, asked for people to be respectful in their comments. After the introduction by the chairman, in which he succinctly summarised the problems, it was Dr Pangloss's turn: "When I look around and see the wonderful things that are happening in Fishhole and Eastphalia thanks to the Mayoral Vision ...," he began, but was quickly cut short. The mood in the place was certainly angry. People had lost thousands of pounds and the future still looked bleak. It was quickly established that council had not told everyone the road was going to be closed, and that the Councillor FUC-U had not covered himself in glory with his diversion signs - one businessman said a first-year student in town planning could have worked out a better strategy on the back of a fag packet. Deputy Mayor Ahmad Hatter stood up and said something about black pudding and whippets but nobody could really understand him so he sat down again. The Mayor began to look a little flushed as the temperature in the room began to rise, but it may have just been the tan he had acquired on his short break. Even though a little flustered he soon got into his stride, and began deflecting questions in the time honoured way of talking about the mayoral vision as if it was all actually going to happen. The business community asked for some compensation from the Council, and the Mayor said no. They then asked for free car parking to entice people back to the town. The Mayor said no, because it would upset NCP who ran one of the car parks. Then they asked if they could stop so many buses driving through the pedestrianised area of the town.
At this point the Fat Controller was wheeled out. "No buses driving through the town?" he thundered. "You're all off your fookin' 'eads, the lot of you. I'm in charge of more buses than you've 'ad 'ot dinners, and buses through the town is a fookin' marvellous idea. If you want financial ruin take out the buses, but you'll do it over my dead fookin' body." Most people agreed that the Fat Controller was a man of great charm and charisma mixed with a flair for thoughtful diplomacy. The meeting continued with a lot of discussion going round in circles, but Dr Pangloss did manage to mention his big balloon, which would cost £14 and attract inquisitive high spending visitors wondering if that shitty-looking seafront looked any better from the air.
After the meeting, as the happy band were heading back to their car, Dr Pangloss turned to Ahmad Hatter and said "I thought that went rather well, all things considered. We told them they couldn't have any money from the council, they couldn't have free or even slightly reduced car parking. I'm not going to say the council was negligent, so basically it's business as usual. Oh, except we've got to put some better signs up, and have a meeting before we blow their bus ideas out of the water."
Ahmad Hatter nodded in agreement. "You know Ahmad," continued Pangloss, what these people have got to realise is that when you're planning a grand mayoral vision for the future you haven't got time to listen to people whine on about impending bancruptcy because everything's a disgraceful mess. These miserable so-and-sos have brought most of this on themselves by being so bloody negative. I say a few bancruptcies around the harbour will be a good thing; it'll free up land for us to sell to developers, and we'l be able to crack on with a few high-rise executive apartments. We've got to look at the bigger picture, plan long-term. What do I care if their silly shops selling cut-price tat go under? Let them print their bloody flyers and have their little meetings. If they think they can influence me they'd better think again. Entrepreneurs? Don't make me laugh. I'll still be earning fifty grand a year when those tossers are on the dole. And who was that irksome little man with the scouse accent haranguing me about parking metres? He called me a dictator. Make a note, Ahmad. I want the first parking metre in Westphalia-on-Sea right outside his shop, and I will personally go down and unveil it."
At this point the Fat Controller was wheeled out. "No buses driving through the town?" he thundered. "You're all off your fookin' 'eads, the lot of you. I'm in charge of more buses than you've 'ad 'ot dinners, and buses through the town is a fookin' marvellous idea. If you want financial ruin take out the buses, but you'll do it over my dead fookin' body." Most people agreed that the Fat Controller was a man of great charm and charisma mixed with a flair for thoughtful diplomacy. The meeting continued with a lot of discussion going round in circles, but Dr Pangloss did manage to mention his big balloon, which would cost £14 and attract inquisitive high spending visitors wondering if that shitty-looking seafront looked any better from the air.
After the meeting, as the happy band were heading back to their car, Dr Pangloss turned to Ahmad Hatter and said "I thought that went rather well, all things considered. We told them they couldn't have any money from the council, they couldn't have free or even slightly reduced car parking. I'm not going to say the council was negligent, so basically it's business as usual. Oh, except we've got to put some better signs up, and have a meeting before we blow their bus ideas out of the water."
Ahmad Hatter nodded in agreement. "You know Ahmad," continued Pangloss, what these people have got to realise is that when you're planning a grand mayoral vision for the future you haven't got time to listen to people whine on about impending bancruptcy because everything's a disgraceful mess. These miserable so-and-sos have brought most of this on themselves by being so bloody negative. I say a few bancruptcies around the harbour will be a good thing; it'll free up land for us to sell to developers, and we'l be able to crack on with a few high-rise executive apartments. We've got to look at the bigger picture, plan long-term. What do I care if their silly shops selling cut-price tat go under? Let them print their bloody flyers and have their little meetings. If they think they can influence me they'd better think again. Entrepreneurs? Don't make me laugh. I'll still be earning fifty grand a year when those tossers are on the dole. And who was that irksome little man with the scouse accent haranguing me about parking metres? He called me a dictator. Make a note, Ahmad. I want the first parking metre in Westphalia-on-Sea right outside his shop, and I will personally go down and unveil it."
Chapter 46 In which a Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups is appointed
As the month of February drew to a close and the days began to get longer and lighter the people of Westphalia-on-Sea saw the first signs of spring and allowed a little optimism to enter their lives. Having once been a great summer seaside resort to which the great British unwashed would flock in their thousands, the spring was always the time for blind optimism. Some time in March an amateur meteorologist would usually consult a shrivelled up old bit of seaweed hanging outside his back door and declare a summer of soaring temperatures. This would then be front page news, and hoteliers, publicans, amusement arcade owners and purveyors of tat would rub their hands together at the thought of a bumper summer, even though more often than not people had to get their tans from standing in the English rain.
Unfortunately any optimism that had appeared with the daffodils in the spring of 2008 quickly evaporated, and pretty soon optimism in Westphalia-on-Sea was as rare as rocking horse shit. The reason for this was that a picturesque cliff walk on the seafront had been deemed unsafe, and it was believed there may be a few undesirable drug addicts lurking in the bushes, so Dr Pangloss and his happy band of councillors decided that every piece of vegetation should be unceremoniously ripped from the cliff face until it looked like a patch of Vietnamese jungle after a particularly vicious napalm attack. While this area of outstanding natural beauty was undergoing its health and safety rationalisation the whole road had to be closed, blocking access to the harbour and a large part of the town centre. And when every living thing had been ripped out by the roots it was declared that the road would remain closed for quite a while longer because there were still some safety issues regarding the cliff. Well, as you can imagine, many of the local residents became rather irate at this news, particularly those whose shops had been effectively cordoned off from any passing trade. There were meetings organised and letters written, and it was headline news practically every day in the Westphalia Express. In fact no-one could remember so many column inches being devoted to just one subject since the election of Dr Pangloss and the promise of the best of all possible worlds. Business owners began to say that they would have to close down, and it became obvious that something would have to be done, so Dr Pangloss swung into action and resolved never to have his photo appear in the paper next to one of the stories about the cliff face. His obedient servant, deputy and all round whipping boy Ahmad Hatter would be the cliff 'face', aided and abetted by another councillor, who was given the impressive title of 'Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups'. Between the two of them they would field any difficult questions and generally take the flak, leaving Dr Pangloss holed up in his bunker to devote the machinations of his outsized brain to casinos and balloons. It was a jolly good plan, but like many of Dr Pangloss's good plans, it needed an outside professional to give it a veneer of respectability, so an expert was brought in to tell everyone how the 'napalm approach' to landscape gardening was essential in this case. The reason it was essential, he said, was basically safety. The cliff face had been there for years and years, but there was imminent danger of large boulders coming crashing down on people's heads. Anything other than a scorched earth policy would have been negligent, and this council certainly wasn't negligent. These wise words were repeated by the Councillor FUC-U, and all the residents were mightily relieved that an unimaginable disaster had been averted by the quick thinking and decisive action of Councillor FUC-U. In fact some of the residents were so old they could remember a time when a local beach had suffered a similar fate. Rock falls were predicted, so the only solution was to think of everyone's safety and close the whole beach, ripping up the access path to it in the process. Luckily that beach was now an empty and derelict eyesore which could now be viewed from the perfect safety of the clifftop, and it was very much hoped that a similar solution could be found for the seafront.
One local businessman, a Mr Eddie Cochran, was becoming a particular thorn in Dr Pangloss's side. He was already talking about the 'Summertime Blues' and with his rallying cry of 'C'mon Everybody' he was organising meetings to put pressure on the council to act. He didn't just want half price car parking, he wanted 'Something Else'. (That's enough Eddie Cochran song titles, Ed.) Dr Pangloss was once again exasperated by the general ingratitude of the inhabitants of Westphalia-on-Sea. Here he was, making the seafront safe for everyone to enjoy, reducing street crime and litter into the bargain by closing the area off, and all he read in the newspaper was people whining about 'you've made the whole cliff face unstable', 'my business is going down the toilet', and 'it's all a massive cock-up'. Well, Dr Pangloss had to disagree. He was willing to admit that during his time in office he had had a few cock-ups, but this wasn't one of them - it was all about safety, and if a safe seafront was a closed seafront, then closed it would be. No wealthy casino-goers were going to be crushed to death by falling boulders on his watch - absolutely not!
Unfortunately any optimism that had appeared with the daffodils in the spring of 2008 quickly evaporated, and pretty soon optimism in Westphalia-on-Sea was as rare as rocking horse shit. The reason for this was that a picturesque cliff walk on the seafront had been deemed unsafe, and it was believed there may be a few undesirable drug addicts lurking in the bushes, so Dr Pangloss and his happy band of councillors decided that every piece of vegetation should be unceremoniously ripped from the cliff face until it looked like a patch of Vietnamese jungle after a particularly vicious napalm attack. While this area of outstanding natural beauty was undergoing its health and safety rationalisation the whole road had to be closed, blocking access to the harbour and a large part of the town centre. And when every living thing had been ripped out by the roots it was declared that the road would remain closed for quite a while longer because there were still some safety issues regarding the cliff. Well, as you can imagine, many of the local residents became rather irate at this news, particularly those whose shops had been effectively cordoned off from any passing trade. There were meetings organised and letters written, and it was headline news practically every day in the Westphalia Express. In fact no-one could remember so many column inches being devoted to just one subject since the election of Dr Pangloss and the promise of the best of all possible worlds. Business owners began to say that they would have to close down, and it became obvious that something would have to be done, so Dr Pangloss swung into action and resolved never to have his photo appear in the paper next to one of the stories about the cliff face. His obedient servant, deputy and all round whipping boy Ahmad Hatter would be the cliff 'face', aided and abetted by another councillor, who was given the impressive title of 'Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups'. Between the two of them they would field any difficult questions and generally take the flak, leaving Dr Pangloss holed up in his bunker to devote the machinations of his outsized brain to casinos and balloons. It was a jolly good plan, but like many of Dr Pangloss's good plans, it needed an outside professional to give it a veneer of respectability, so an expert was brought in to tell everyone how the 'napalm approach' to landscape gardening was essential in this case. The reason it was essential, he said, was basically safety. The cliff face had been there for years and years, but there was imminent danger of large boulders coming crashing down on people's heads. Anything other than a scorched earth policy would have been negligent, and this council certainly wasn't negligent. These wise words were repeated by the Councillor FUC-U, and all the residents were mightily relieved that an unimaginable disaster had been averted by the quick thinking and decisive action of Councillor FUC-U. In fact some of the residents were so old they could remember a time when a local beach had suffered a similar fate. Rock falls were predicted, so the only solution was to think of everyone's safety and close the whole beach, ripping up the access path to it in the process. Luckily that beach was now an empty and derelict eyesore which could now be viewed from the perfect safety of the clifftop, and it was very much hoped that a similar solution could be found for the seafront.
One local businessman, a Mr Eddie Cochran, was becoming a particular thorn in Dr Pangloss's side. He was already talking about the 'Summertime Blues' and with his rallying cry of 'C'mon Everybody' he was organising meetings to put pressure on the council to act. He didn't just want half price car parking, he wanted 'Something Else'. (That's enough Eddie Cochran song titles, Ed.) Dr Pangloss was once again exasperated by the general ingratitude of the inhabitants of Westphalia-on-Sea. Here he was, making the seafront safe for everyone to enjoy, reducing street crime and litter into the bargain by closing the area off, and all he read in the newspaper was people whining about 'you've made the whole cliff face unstable', 'my business is going down the toilet', and 'it's all a massive cock-up'. Well, Dr Pangloss had to disagree. He was willing to admit that during his time in office he had had a few cock-ups, but this wasn't one of them - it was all about safety, and if a safe seafront was a closed seafront, then closed it would be. No wealthy casino-goers were going to be crushed to death by falling boulders on his watch - absolutely not!
THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS
After all the excitement, and controversy, of the Mayoral Vision project it's good to stand back and take note of all the achievements of the last couple of years, topped off by the excellent news that the Cote de Westphalia is back at the top of the league.
I refer, of course, to today's news that we have the highest teenage pregnancy rates in the country outside London. This is a marvellous shot in the arm for the area, and we should all be very grateful to these schoolchildren for sacrificing their youth in order to provide the next generation of workers to fill the vacancies that we will undoubtedly create. Yes, instead of going out partying in the few pubs and bars that remain open in the town centre, these teenagers will be at home caring for the croupiers and balloon operators of tomorrow. Some may think they're mad, starting families at such a tender age, but who can blame them? With such a dynamic programme unfolding in Westphalia-on-Sea is it any wonder that they want to have more family members who can benefit from the 'trickle down wealth' effect that all this investment will surely bring? Yes, by the time these Westphalian infants reach adulthood they will almost certainly be able to walk along the seafront without a hard hat. And their parents will look up at the cliff, point and say: 'I can remember when that ugly and dangerous cliff face was covered in beautiful trees and illuminated with coloured lights'.
But I digress. Today, coming rather aptly as it does two days before Mothers' Day, is a celebration of birth, life, families, regeneration and renaissance. It is not about about silly indiscretions after half a bottle of Lambrusco. At a time when the country as a whole is suffering from a declining birthrate, here in Westphalia-on-Sea our teenagers are popping them out like there's no tomorrow. We are bucking the trend, and sending out a strong message to the rest of the country: 'Westphalia-on-Sea is open for business, and a bit of how's-your-father as well.' We should make the most of this boost in publicity, and I have just the idea for another visionary project which cashes in on our obvious strength in this area - fertility clinics and sperm banks.
I can just see the slogans now: 'SEA AIR PUTS LEAD IN YOUR PENCIL' and 'THE PLACE TO GET PREGGERS'. People will flock back here if they think the place is associated with virility and manliness, and I think that is the image I have created since my time in office began. A sperm bank, right on the seafront, halfway between the dangerous cliff face and the balloon, will be an obvious attraction to any professional women who have left it a little bit late to get pregnant by more, ahem, conventional means. With the fashion for designer babies, we would obviously have a celebrity section in the bank, where the rich and famous can come along after spending a terrific night at the casino and leave a donation. I believe there is also considerable demand for the sperm of people with exceptionally high IQs, so yours truly may be making a donation soon as well - I just hope the newspapers don't turn the event into some cheap story with a tasteless headline.
Yes, this really is a great day, and once again we have proved the naysayers wrong. It won't happen overnight, but I foresee a time in Westphalia-on-Sea when all our girls are pregnant when they leave school, even the fat mingers. So it's not just casinos, balloons, beach resorts and new hotels - there will be something for everybody in the Westphalia-on-Sea of tomorrow.
Dr Pangloss
Mayor of Westphalia-on-Sea
I refer, of course, to today's news that we have the highest teenage pregnancy rates in the country outside London. This is a marvellous shot in the arm for the area, and we should all be very grateful to these schoolchildren for sacrificing their youth in order to provide the next generation of workers to fill the vacancies that we will undoubtedly create. Yes, instead of going out partying in the few pubs and bars that remain open in the town centre, these teenagers will be at home caring for the croupiers and balloon operators of tomorrow. Some may think they're mad, starting families at such a tender age, but who can blame them? With such a dynamic programme unfolding in Westphalia-on-Sea is it any wonder that they want to have more family members who can benefit from the 'trickle down wealth' effect that all this investment will surely bring? Yes, by the time these Westphalian infants reach adulthood they will almost certainly be able to walk along the seafront without a hard hat. And their parents will look up at the cliff, point and say: 'I can remember when that ugly and dangerous cliff face was covered in beautiful trees and illuminated with coloured lights'.
But I digress. Today, coming rather aptly as it does two days before Mothers' Day, is a celebration of birth, life, families, regeneration and renaissance. It is not about about silly indiscretions after half a bottle of Lambrusco. At a time when the country as a whole is suffering from a declining birthrate, here in Westphalia-on-Sea our teenagers are popping them out like there's no tomorrow. We are bucking the trend, and sending out a strong message to the rest of the country: 'Westphalia-on-Sea is open for business, and a bit of how's-your-father as well.' We should make the most of this boost in publicity, and I have just the idea for another visionary project which cashes in on our obvious strength in this area - fertility clinics and sperm banks.
I can just see the slogans now: 'SEA AIR PUTS LEAD IN YOUR PENCIL' and 'THE PLACE TO GET PREGGERS'. People will flock back here if they think the place is associated with virility and manliness, and I think that is the image I have created since my time in office began. A sperm bank, right on the seafront, halfway between the dangerous cliff face and the balloon, will be an obvious attraction to any professional women who have left it a little bit late to get pregnant by more, ahem, conventional means. With the fashion for designer babies, we would obviously have a celebrity section in the bank, where the rich and famous can come along after spending a terrific night at the casino and leave a donation. I believe there is also considerable demand for the sperm of people with exceptionally high IQs, so yours truly may be making a donation soon as well - I just hope the newspapers don't turn the event into some cheap story with a tasteless headline.
Yes, this really is a great day, and once again we have proved the naysayers wrong. It won't happen overnight, but I foresee a time in Westphalia-on-Sea when all our girls are pregnant when they leave school, even the fat mingers. So it's not just casinos, balloons, beach resorts and new hotels - there will be something for everybody in the Westphalia-on-Sea of tomorrow.
Dr Pangloss
Mayor of Westphalia-on-Sea
Chapter 45 In which Pangloss realises that nobody can stop him
As February was drawing to a close Dr Pangloss had good reason to feel rather pleased with himself. In the face of great adversity, with all those moaning minnies writing to the paper every five minutes complaining about his redevelopment plans, he had managed to get all the developers down to a hotel to hear about how the grand sell-off would proceed - after Mr De Saveloy had bagged himself a whole beach and a good bit of the cliffs as well word soon got around that there would be rich pickings in Westphalia-on-Sea. But the most impressive piece of work was still the Mayoral Vision. He now realised that the very title was a stroke of genius by the consultants, as it gave the impression that he, Dr Pangloss, could actually see into the future. Of course, the reality was that Dr Pangloss couldn't see further than the end of his own nose, and he couldn't even see that far without his glasses. Yes, he thought, there had been a few worrying moments at the beginning when people said this isn't your vision, it's just a load of ill-thought out random ideas chucked together by some consultants who are now charging the earth, but Pangloss now realised that there was a lot of truth in the old saying about today's newspaper being tomorrow's chip paper. It had dawned on him that unless the locals actually formed themselves into some kind of formal opposition group they could write all the letters in the world about the problems of the little people and it wouldn't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Since the cat was well and truly out of bag regarding whose idea the Mayoral Vision actually was, Dr Pangloss had taken the bold step of actually naming Derek Poundsign of Complete Commercial Upgrades and New Town Solutions as the true visionary (he could look around a down-at-heel town and see six-figure sums where mere mortals could only see fast food wrappers blowing around the deserted streets) in his newspaper column. The Mayoral Vision was actually a Consultant's Dream, or, if you listened to some of the more vocal locals, the Residents' Nightmare, but it didn't really matter a jot - as long as these windbags put all their efforts into letters and blogs he could carry on picking up his hefty salary and flogging prime real estate for high-rise harbourside development. Phrases such as 'benefiting from stunning views across the Bay' and 'just a stone's throw away from Westphalia-on-Sea's own Sydney Opera House' starting coming to mind as his natural estate agent's impulses kicked in - he really was as happy as a pig in a traditional porcine environment.
The lesson that Pangloss had learnt from the consultants was worth every penny of the locals' money, and it was this: it's not what you say but how you say it. Derek Poundsign and his team had proved that you could dress up a ridiculous idea and sell it to a gullible public provided it was presented in the right way, and like religion, if the facts and figures didn't stack up under close scrutiny you had to rely on faith and some slick marketing tricks. Many people like to believe in some sort of heavenly paradise where they can spend their post-life retirement, and they are quite prepared to ignore all forms of logic in order to keep this idea alive, and so it was with the Mayoral Vision. The believers didn't want to hear that northerners were now heading to all-inclusive Caribbean destinations where you could get cheap 5-star accommodation and the sun shone all day. No, they wanted to believe that with a casino and a balloon they would rush back to Westphalia-on-Sea to sit on one of the beaches that was still open to the public. They didn't want to hear that everybody was spending their money in out-of-town shopping malls or on the internet these days. No, they wanted to believe that people could make a decent living selling scented candles and home-made fudge in quaint little shops if it was called 'niche retail', and that with a little positive mental attitude we could put up a roadblock on the information superhighway and divert everyone back to the town centre. As mad as it all seemed, there were plenty of people who were happy to believe that global warming and a lack of aviation fuel some time in the future would lead to the recreation of the tourism of the 1970s, and that the developers were a bunch of people who went round the country creating wonderful garden cities out of the goodness of their heart. Very few people seemed to realise that the grand plan would end up providing luxury apartments for sale as second homes, and that for most people the end result would be no change, except with a bit more concrete to look at.
With thoughts of his invincibility swishing about his head it was an emboldened mayor who picked up the phone to councillor Norwegian-Blue.
'Ah, Mr Mayor, I trust you have made a decision on the budget for the Civic Chairman by now?' said the obsequious Norwegian-Blue.
'I have indeed,' replied Pangloss. 'The budget stays the same.'
'But we need to make serious cuts, this is a lot of money we're wasting. You were required to fully consider my recommendation,' spluttered Norwegian-Blue.
'I have fully considered it, and my answer is no budget cuts. Look, we need someone to turn up in all those chains at church fetes and school pantos - I'm buggered if I'm going to do it.'
'But £125,000 is a heck of a lot of money.'
'Nonsense. It's a bloody bargain compared to what the consultants cost. Anyway if you're so worried about money get a bloody move on with the parking meters. The sooner we get those in place the sooner we can start taking more cash off everyone. I'm getting fed up having to pussyfoot around all the time.'
'This parking meter scheme doesn't exactly seem popular, you know.'
'Popular? popular? Mussolini wasn't popular, but he got the trains running on time. Now listen to me. I'm in charge, and if I say we're going to waste an eighth of a million pounds on having a Civic Chairman then that's what we're going to do, so stick that in your Overview and Scrutiny Board pipe and smoke it.'
With that Pangloss slammed the phone down; at last he was actually starting to enjoy his job again.
The lesson that Pangloss had learnt from the consultants was worth every penny of the locals' money, and it was this: it's not what you say but how you say it. Derek Poundsign and his team had proved that you could dress up a ridiculous idea and sell it to a gullible public provided it was presented in the right way, and like religion, if the facts and figures didn't stack up under close scrutiny you had to rely on faith and some slick marketing tricks. Many people like to believe in some sort of heavenly paradise where they can spend their post-life retirement, and they are quite prepared to ignore all forms of logic in order to keep this idea alive, and so it was with the Mayoral Vision. The believers didn't want to hear that northerners were now heading to all-inclusive Caribbean destinations where you could get cheap 5-star accommodation and the sun shone all day. No, they wanted to believe that with a casino and a balloon they would rush back to Westphalia-on-Sea to sit on one of the beaches that was still open to the public. They didn't want to hear that everybody was spending their money in out-of-town shopping malls or on the internet these days. No, they wanted to believe that people could make a decent living selling scented candles and home-made fudge in quaint little shops if it was called 'niche retail', and that with a little positive mental attitude we could put up a roadblock on the information superhighway and divert everyone back to the town centre. As mad as it all seemed, there were plenty of people who were happy to believe that global warming and a lack of aviation fuel some time in the future would lead to the recreation of the tourism of the 1970s, and that the developers were a bunch of people who went round the country creating wonderful garden cities out of the goodness of their heart. Very few people seemed to realise that the grand plan would end up providing luxury apartments for sale as second homes, and that for most people the end result would be no change, except with a bit more concrete to look at.
With thoughts of his invincibility swishing about his head it was an emboldened mayor who picked up the phone to councillor Norwegian-Blue.
'Ah, Mr Mayor, I trust you have made a decision on the budget for the Civic Chairman by now?' said the obsequious Norwegian-Blue.
'I have indeed,' replied Pangloss. 'The budget stays the same.'
'But we need to make serious cuts, this is a lot of money we're wasting. You were required to fully consider my recommendation,' spluttered Norwegian-Blue.
'I have fully considered it, and my answer is no budget cuts. Look, we need someone to turn up in all those chains at church fetes and school pantos - I'm buggered if I'm going to do it.'
'But £125,000 is a heck of a lot of money.'
'Nonsense. It's a bloody bargain compared to what the consultants cost. Anyway if you're so worried about money get a bloody move on with the parking meters. The sooner we get those in place the sooner we can start taking more cash off everyone. I'm getting fed up having to pussyfoot around all the time.'
'This parking meter scheme doesn't exactly seem popular, you know.'
'Popular? popular? Mussolini wasn't popular, but he got the trains running on time. Now listen to me. I'm in charge, and if I say we're going to waste an eighth of a million pounds on having a Civic Chairman then that's what we're going to do, so stick that in your Overview and Scrutiny Board pipe and smoke it.'
With that Pangloss slammed the phone down; at last he was actually starting to enjoy his job again.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
With so many anonymous comments on the blog it appears that many of you are afraid to contact the PLO (Piddlebackside Liberation Organisation) for fear of reprisals from local government, your employers or the Taliban. Should anyone wish to enter into dialogue with the 'people's blogging collective' they can do so by leaving a comment with a name or nickname on the blog - just mark it NOT TO BE PUBLISHED, and it won't be (although it will of course be read). Anyone requiring a direct reply can leave an email address, which, of course, will not be published. We will endeavour to answer any queries as soon as possible, but please bear in mind that broadband connections can be intermittent in a mountain hideout, especially at this time of year.
Chapter 44 In which Charlie shows his true colours
As Charlie Windsor had ended their call rather abruptly, Pangloss stared for a few seconds at the now silent telephone receiver still in his hand before pressing the buzzer on his intercom.
'Jenny, can you come through please? I need you to explain a few things to me.'
'What can I do for you, Dr Pangloss?' asked his secretary as she breezed into the office.
'I want to know all about this business in the paper - what's Charlie Windsor been saying about Brian Localbloke?'
'Oh, it's quite simple, ' said Jenny, 'but it all started with this Tory MP called Derek Conway, who lives miles away from Westphalia-on-Sea. Apparently he paid one of his sons £45,000 from public funds while he was a full-time student at Newcastle University. Then it turned out he had paid his elder son £32,000 in similar circumstances. Of course, there are no records of these two twerps doing any work for this money, so in most people's eyes it's a case of embezzlement and theft.'
'Crikey, he sounds a nasty piece of work. Is he going to be banged up? He might have to be someone's bitch in prison - I've heard about that sort of thing.'
'Oh no, he's just been given ten days off work. Anyway that's not all. It seems that over the past six years the Conway family members were paid £374,401 in parliamentary allowances. Oh yes, and one of his sons organised a theme party with the title 'Fuck Off I'm Rich.''
'I see. But what's all this got to do with Charlie Windsor and Brian Localbloke?'
'Well, you know that Charlie Windsor is desperate to get his face in the paper at any opportunity, so he tried to imply that Brian Localbloke is doing something underhand because he employs his wife as his office manager.'
'But that's ridiculous. Even I know that Brian is an honest kind of guy. I must say I didn't quite realise what a greasy little shit Charlie could be. And anyway, everyone knows he's only here to try and get himself an MP's salary and allowances himself - it's not as if he gives a flying fuck about the locals anyway.'
'Yes quite, but it doesn't end there. Apparently Tarquin Pompous-Duffer, the Tory MP for Toadness, has employed his daughter as well, so now he's caught up in it all, and it turns out his last claim for staffing costs was more than Brian Localbloke's.'
'Blimey, old Charlie doesn't want to get on the wrong side of Mr Pompous-Duffer; he'll have him horse-whipped or keel-hauled or something.'
'Yes, well there have been a few letters in the paper pointing out that Charlie's attack on Localbloke is altogether misguided, not to mention downright hypocritical when it's your and his fellow Tories who are busy filling their pockets.'
'Crikey, I don't want to be tarred with the same brush. I wonder if it's time I moved back to Lib-Dems, or tried a different party altogether?'
'How about the Monster Raving Loony Party?' suggested his secretary. 'I'm only kidding - I don't think you'd get in - you're a bit too straight. But look, the locals think you're an overpaid clown sleepwalking from one disaster to another, selling off precious parts of the bay and throwing their hard-earned cash hand over fist at half-witted consultants, but I don't believe they think you're dishonest.'
'Well thank you for that resounding vote of confidence, Jenny,' said Pangloss, and he allowed his face to crack into a little smile, 'that's most reassuring.'
'Jenny, can you come through please? I need you to explain a few things to me.'
'What can I do for you, Dr Pangloss?' asked his secretary as she breezed into the office.
'I want to know all about this business in the paper - what's Charlie Windsor been saying about Brian Localbloke?'
'Oh, it's quite simple, ' said Jenny, 'but it all started with this Tory MP called Derek Conway, who lives miles away from Westphalia-on-Sea. Apparently he paid one of his sons £45,000 from public funds while he was a full-time student at Newcastle University. Then it turned out he had paid his elder son £32,000 in similar circumstances. Of course, there are no records of these two twerps doing any work for this money, so in most people's eyes it's a case of embezzlement and theft.'
'Crikey, he sounds a nasty piece of work. Is he going to be banged up? He might have to be someone's bitch in prison - I've heard about that sort of thing.'
'Oh no, he's just been given ten days off work. Anyway that's not all. It seems that over the past six years the Conway family members were paid £374,401 in parliamentary allowances. Oh yes, and one of his sons organised a theme party with the title 'Fuck Off I'm Rich.''
'I see. But what's all this got to do with Charlie Windsor and Brian Localbloke?'
'Well, you know that Charlie Windsor is desperate to get his face in the paper at any opportunity, so he tried to imply that Brian Localbloke is doing something underhand because he employs his wife as his office manager.'
'But that's ridiculous. Even I know that Brian is an honest kind of guy. I must say I didn't quite realise what a greasy little shit Charlie could be. And anyway, everyone knows he's only here to try and get himself an MP's salary and allowances himself - it's not as if he gives a flying fuck about the locals anyway.'
'Yes quite, but it doesn't end there. Apparently Tarquin Pompous-Duffer, the Tory MP for Toadness, has employed his daughter as well, so now he's caught up in it all, and it turns out his last claim for staffing costs was more than Brian Localbloke's.'
'Blimey, old Charlie doesn't want to get on the wrong side of Mr Pompous-Duffer; he'll have him horse-whipped or keel-hauled or something.'
'Yes, well there have been a few letters in the paper pointing out that Charlie's attack on Localbloke is altogether misguided, not to mention downright hypocritical when it's your and his fellow Tories who are busy filling their pockets.'
'Crikey, I don't want to be tarred with the same brush. I wonder if it's time I moved back to Lib-Dems, or tried a different party altogether?'
'How about the Monster Raving Loony Party?' suggested his secretary. 'I'm only kidding - I don't think you'd get in - you're a bit too straight. But look, the locals think you're an overpaid clown sleepwalking from one disaster to another, selling off precious parts of the bay and throwing their hard-earned cash hand over fist at half-witted consultants, but I don't believe they think you're dishonest.'
'Well thank you for that resounding vote of confidence, Jenny,' said Pangloss, and he allowed his face to crack into a little smile, 'that's most reassuring.'
Chapter 43 In which Pangloss looks for support from an old ally
'Good morning, Lemming Snafu. Charles here, how may I help you?' said Charlie Windsor, answering the phone at his recruitment consultancy.
'Charlie! Good to hear your voice. Pangloss here, it's been a while, hasn't it?'
'Oh, hullo, old man. Yes, I suppose it has. What can I do for you?'
Was he imagining it, or did our illustrious Dr Pangloss detect a little nervousness in Charlie's voice? 'In a nutshell, support,' said Pangloss.'That's what I'm after. The bloody Westphalia Express is starting to abandon me. I could do with some support from some political big-hitters, but as I don't know any I thought I'd ask you as you were my election campaign manager.'
'Well it's very nice that you thought of me, but I'm not sure that would really be in my best interest at the moment. I mean, things have moved on, times have changed, and all that.'
'What do you mean?' asked Pangloss.
'Well, put a little less euphemistically, you've made a complete mess of everything and I can't really afford to be associated with you.'
'What! But you are associated with me. You helped get me elected, you wrote all that stuff supporting my Vision, we're both Tories, we're practically political Siamese twins.'
'Well, not quite. This Siamese twin hasn't got a fifty grand plus salary yet, and if I'm going to jump aboard that gravy train heading for Westminster I can't be seen cosying up to you. I read that story about your U-turn over making blind people pay for their talking books, and then another U-turn story about the parking meters. Things are looking a bit grim for you at the moment, old boy.'
'Christ, a couple of minor incidents where I carefully reconsidered the views of the Westphalians, that's all. And strictly speaking two U-turns means I'm actually heading in the original direction.'
'Look,' said Charlie, 'You know as well as I do that you only changed your mind because of all the negative publicity you were getting, and frankly, I don't think you'd know which direction you were heading in if you had a compass superglued to end of your nose. Now as for me, things are just starting to look up. I've managed to get my face in the Westphalia Express a couple of times recently by sounding off about Brian Localbloke, and I can't afford to lose any momentum by getting involved with you and your daft ideas. I tell you what, I'll give you a ring if you ever dig yourself out of the hole you're in, how's that? Now I've got to go, there's another call waiting. Bye.'
'Charlie! Good to hear your voice. Pangloss here, it's been a while, hasn't it?'
'Oh, hullo, old man. Yes, I suppose it has. What can I do for you?'
Was he imagining it, or did our illustrious Dr Pangloss detect a little nervousness in Charlie's voice? 'In a nutshell, support,' said Pangloss.'That's what I'm after. The bloody Westphalia Express is starting to abandon me. I could do with some support from some political big-hitters, but as I don't know any I thought I'd ask you as you were my election campaign manager.'
'Well it's very nice that you thought of me, but I'm not sure that would really be in my best interest at the moment. I mean, things have moved on, times have changed, and all that.'
'What do you mean?' asked Pangloss.
'Well, put a little less euphemistically, you've made a complete mess of everything and I can't really afford to be associated with you.'
'What! But you are associated with me. You helped get me elected, you wrote all that stuff supporting my Vision, we're both Tories, we're practically political Siamese twins.'
'Well, not quite. This Siamese twin hasn't got a fifty grand plus salary yet, and if I'm going to jump aboard that gravy train heading for Westminster I can't be seen cosying up to you. I read that story about your U-turn over making blind people pay for their talking books, and then another U-turn story about the parking meters. Things are looking a bit grim for you at the moment, old boy.'
'Christ, a couple of minor incidents where I carefully reconsidered the views of the Westphalians, that's all. And strictly speaking two U-turns means I'm actually heading in the original direction.'
'Look,' said Charlie, 'You know as well as I do that you only changed your mind because of all the negative publicity you were getting, and frankly, I don't think you'd know which direction you were heading in if you had a compass superglued to end of your nose. Now as for me, things are just starting to look up. I've managed to get my face in the Westphalia Express a couple of times recently by sounding off about Brian Localbloke, and I can't afford to lose any momentum by getting involved with you and your daft ideas. I tell you what, I'll give you a ring if you ever dig yourself out of the hole you're in, how's that? Now I've got to go, there's another call waiting. Bye.'
Chapter 42 In which the wind of change begins to blow ...
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.'
'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.'
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