Monday, 30 November 2015

CUI BONO; A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER (fragment of the book).

Of all the impossible tasks available to impugn the ingenuity of the human condition, that involving the computation of time in our collective history when the World went mad, is the most difficult to guide to a successful conclusion. Personally, I think the societies which populate this Earth were never constrained within the parameters which define sanity, the World has always been mad, it is just that there have been times in our past when this particularly inconvenient truth has been less apparent than at others. That said, it has to be admitted that during the terminal decades of the twentieth century, the elite who govern the councils of our respective societies, plunged into an abyss of insanity not matched since the first millennium, when whole sections of the Christian World, convinced the end was nigh, gave away their possessions and retreated to the mountain tops, there to await the second coming of the Lord. In the times of which I write, Christianity had waned somewhat in popularity, but human nature abhors true atheism, and a new religion had arisen to take the place of the old in the hearts of men. This new faith was called climate change, and in certain government and academic circles, adherence to the tenets of this new dogma was mandatory. Nothing threatens the freedom of a society as does the tyranny imposed by a second class mind, and it is to the distress of people wherever they may hail from that a second class mind is all the average politician may aspire to, most of the genre do not even manage to achieve that lowly pinnacle of ambition. In this matter, Albertina Mallory did not stray from the established norm, she had perfected mediocrity to an art form, and like her maquillage, it was egregious to the point of vulgarity, although she was far too self obsessed to realise the fact. Albertina, to the distress of the Nation, was Prime Minister of England. Mrs. Mallory was a thin woman, flat chested and angular, her face had the pinched look which comes naturally to they who are perennially displeased by all who come into contact with them and are too idle to convey the fact, assuming their contempt for the World is taken for granted. The one outstanding feature of Albertina’s physiognomy was her proboscis, the contours of which suggested it would have done better duty as a coat hook than a nasal passage. Albertina’s greatest personal indulgence was sex, she could not get enough of it. The woman had been through every man in the Cabinet, the wider ranks of government and a fair percentage of the Civil Service. Humping the witch as it was known in certain eminent circles, was not exactly looked upon as one of the perks of office, but the gentlemen in the ranks of the elite considered screwing the Prime Minister in return for them being allowed to continue screwing the country, was an acceptable price to have to pay in order to avoid getting the sack and having to find a proper job. There comes a time in the affaires of politicians when they realise the game is up, and the electorate is getting bolshie, Mrs. Mallory had arrived at that point, she had reached the pinnacle of power by intrigue, her minions had stabbed her predecessor in the back, after this re-enactment of the Ides of March, had marched elegantly shod through the portals of Ten Downing Street, where within months, where, within months of purloining the previous incumbent’s position, everything she touched turned to electoral disaster. The woman was an albatross around the neck of her party, and she was the only person in all of the land who could not see this salient fact of her administration. In a situation such as this, there is a uniformity of response the World over, find a band wagon and jump on it. There was always one such vehicle trundling down the High Street, offering a gullible legislator a ride in exchange for a generous libation of taxpayers cash. Albertina’s vehicle of choice was the one driven by the international snake oil salesmen peddling the gospel of anthropogenic climate change. The prime Minister was indulging herself in a tantrum, an activity which in all truth was the only one she was any good at. “The bitch. Bloody upper-class bitch.” The Premier’s tantrum got the better of her, and the mobile phone she was holding left the tender confines of her palm, sailed across the room before rendezvousing with the wall amidst a brief shower of sparks, narrowly missing the Cabinet Secretary who had just entered the room. Sir Grimsdyke Bartholomew was a Whitehall mandarin of the old school, he pretended not to have notice the arc of the electronic projectile, notwithstanding this was the third such incident in less than a week, and the previous month they’d had to bribe a secretary into silence after the Prime Minister had brained her with a computer keyboard. Sir Grimsdyke assumed the unctuous smile without which no senior Civil Servant could survive in the ethical miasma which passed for government. “Everything fine Prime Minister?” He knew the answer he would receive even before his mistress had the chance to spit it in his direction. “No it fucking isn’t.” “Is it something with which I can help?” There was a genuine solicitude to his query, triggered by the relief that he would not, on this occasion have to drop his strides and give the old cow a length. Albertina never wanted sex when in a strop. “The snooty southern cow. She isn’t answering her phone again. I tell you, she does it on purpose just to wind me up.” “Oh Prime Minister, I’m sure Ms Flambert wouldn’t do such a thing.” “One day Grimsdyke, you’ll choke on all that diplomacy of yours. Little Lady Flambert would stick the knife in my back before dinner time if she thought she could get away with it. I don’t know why I put up with it, I really do not understand why I do.” “I should imagine Prime Minister it is because Ms. Flambert is the token toff of the administration. Chosen to illustrate beyond any doubt the working class authenticity of the others. Posh foi gras, introduced on to the menu to highlight the genuine tripe if you know what I mean. Works brilliantly by the way.” No-one could deliver the veiled insult like a Civil Service Mandarin, and in that field, Sir Grimsdyke led the field. What Bartholomew did not say, was that it was vital that a government had a few such as Oriola on tap to do the rounds of the diplomatic and international conference circuit, where it was helpful to know which knife and fork to use and the delegate could be relied upon not to drink tea from the saucer. “Now then Grimsdyke, where’s this ‘ere conference?” “Which one Prime Minister?” Asked Bartholomew, perfectly aware of which event the Premier was referring to. “You know, that climate change thingy.” “Oh yes. Anthropogenic climate change.” Smiled Sir Grimsdyke, knowing full well his mistress did not have a clue as to what he was referring to. “Anthro what?” “Anthropogenic. It means man made.” “Then why the fuck couldn’t you say so in the first place?” The Prime Minister prided herself on what she proudly thought of as her down to Earth speech “Dear God.” Thought Sir Grimsdyke, while keeping his expression resolutely neutral. “Is it mandatory that in order to climb to the top of the greasy pole in politics, it is necessary to possess less intelligence than is contained in a gnat’s testicles and to have a mouth like a blocked lavatory?” “Well come on Grimsdyke.” “There’s plenty of time. We have six months to prepare.” “Where’s it being held?” “Yuhzno-Sakhalinsk.” Sir Grimsdyke gave the Premier that patronising smile which was his speciality, knowing her knowledge of geography to be substantially less than her grasp of Latin declensions. “Oo?” “Yuhzno-Sakhalinsk. The capital of Sakhalin Island. A bit to the east of Siberia.” “Siberia. They’re holding a fucking shindig in Siberia. What pillock thought that one up? Wasn’t you was it Grimsdyke?” “Oh no. Britain isn’t in the position to decide such matters any more Prime Minister. These days we go where we are told and pretend to love it when we get there, and are frightfully grateful if we get offered a cup of tea.”