WHY NOT BECOME A FIRST BASE AGENT?

OK. The picture is a bit of a stretch. The hell with you country needing you, the First Base Agency could do with you giving us a lift. Do we expect you to put on a heavy woollen uniform that itches like buggery? No. Do we expect you fix your bayonet and leap out of a trench to become target practice for a machine gunner from Cologne? Absolutely not. So let's face it, we are asking a whole lot less than good old Kitchiner asked all those years ago.

So what are we asking?

Well, if you have read 'Mere Anarchy' and you think what we do at The First Base Agency is a good idea, maybe you will sign on the dotted line to become a First Base Agent.

Thankfully this does not involve donning a disguise and sneaking into a mosque in Oldham to uncover an Al Queda sleeper cell. It is all rather more mundane I'm afraid.

Do you think you might be able to sell a few copies of the books to your friends? If you do, then how many? Maybe 5? Or 10? Hell, maybe even twenty.

Let's say you think you can sell five copies. If so, then drop me an e mail at mark@first-base.org with your name and address. We will send out five copies of the book. You sell them, hopefully for £6 each and then you put the proceeds onto our site at www.justgiving.com/first-base-agency This then spurs the Government into action and they donate 35% of whatever you have raised. When you deliver the copies to your friends maybe you might encourage them to be a First Base Agent themselves.

We would like to think this will give all our agents a better sense of achievement than the guys who heeded Kitchener's call back in 1915! What's more there is absolutely no chance of being mown down by a hail of bullets fired by a machine gun operator from Cologne.

EXTRACT ONE

Bexx was feeling edgy. All the talk of what they were about to do with her benefits was winding her up something rotten. She had even started trying to watch the news. And she hated watching news. News was boring crap. News was posh bastards from London looking down their noses. But now all anyone seemed to be talking about was the bloody news. In the pub and at the Bingo and in the Spar shop. News, news, news. It was doing her head in.
She rummaged in her bag and pulled out the wherewithal for a spliff. Before starting to roll up, she snapped off the news and trawled the screen for something less boring. After 13 hops she landed on some American show where a tearful husband was getting it with both barrels from his wife and mother in law for shagging his secretary. More like it. Stuff the news.
The sound of somebody being cut in half by a machine gun was piling out of the front room where her two youngest sons were camped out on the Xbox.
“Switch it down you little bastards. I cannae hear myself think in here!”
Nothing.
Little sods.
She pulled herself up and stomped to the door. “Listen. You either switch that down or it goes away.”
“That’s shite Ma. It’s only good when it’s loud.”
“I don’t give a shit. Just switch it down or I’ll batter the pair of you.”
Two resentful turned backs. A finger on the remote. An easing of the volume. Better.
She resumed her seat at the kitchen table, lit up and inhaled. Nice. That Donny Baldini was a proper little Dago git but he didn’t half punt some decent weed. The adulterous husband was now crying his eyes out and the studio audience were baying for his blood. Soft prat. Served him bloody well right. They should pin him down and let his missus kick him in the bollocks, so they should.
A tap at the back door.
“Who is it!”
‘Alright Bexx. It’s Sponge.”
Sponge the Junkie. They had been in High School together. Back then he had been a skinny nerd who was big into trance dance. Then he had walked the familiar Rollereton road from dope to eckies to smack. Pondlife, but useful pondlife. She opened up the door to find him looking like a drowned rat in his charity shop anorak. How old was he? Same age as she was, duh. Thirty one and he looked sixty. A bag of shivering bones with the stump brown teeth that only a decade of methadone could bring. Not that she had any great room to talk. When he had once been a speccy nerd, she had been blessed with big tits and a small waist. No shortage of dates back then. It had been her golden era. They had beaten a path to her door in their baseball caps and pimped up little cars. Her first ween had thickened her waist and numbers two, three and four had turned her to blubber. Now she tipped the scales at fourteen stones and gave the mirror a wide birth. When Darren, her eldest at thirteen, threw a wobbly because she wouldn’t give him a fiver to go out, he would get in her face and call her a sad, fat cow. She couldn’t argue really. Not that she gave a shite. There were still plenty of Friday night blokes eager enough to jump on board given half the chance.
“You alright Bexx, yeah?” Wheedling little bastard.
“Aye. I’m right enough.”
“Any chance of a wee cup of tea like? Freezing my bollocks off here like.”
“Go on then. In you come.”
He hunched himself onto one of the chairs and eyed her glowing joint greedily. “Any chance of a wee toke like?”
“Piss off. How many sugars?”
“Four please Bexx. You’re a bloody star like.”
She plonked a mug in front of him and spilt a bit on the stained table top.
“What you got then?”
He took a slurp whilst managing to wolf down a digestive at the same time which meant he spat some soggy crumbs as he spoke. Items started to emerge from his carrier bag.
“Got some sausages. Couple of packs of bacon. And gammon. Nice bit of gammon. Lovely like. Fiver the lot, right?”
“Fiver! You mad or something? Two quid. Take it or leave it.”
“Two quid. Ah come on Bexx. Two quid’s shite.”
“Two quid’s all your getting. I’ve heard nobody’s buying much. Everyone’s saving in case they get kicked out next month.”
His grey face creased into an expression of concern. “You dunnae think they’ll really do it do you Bexx? Kick us all oot like?”
“Will they hell. It’s just the usual politician shite.”
“Aye. S’ppose. You cannae manage three quid?”
“Two and count yourself lucky.”
“Aye alright then.” He pocketed two pound coins and pondered the long hours of frantic shop lifting that lay ahead before he could get himself a tenner bag.
“I’ll be off then.”
She ignored him, lost in the dope and the next televised victim from America.
More infidelity. More screaming accusations. More baying for blood from the studio audience. Her brain slowly dissolved into joints three and four to such an extent that she barely noticed a return to full volume in the front room.
However it was not an entirely contented fog. The cannabis was unable to remove the shiver of unease that had settled on her in the days following that jumped up pratt Pendleton appearing on the tele. Everyone seemed worried about it. And now even Sponge was worrying. Some of the women in the Spar seemed to really believe that everyone was about to get their money stopped. Not just some of it, all of it. And not just that. They were going to have to pay their own rent too. It was ridiculous. How was she going to manage to pay rent with four weens and that? Anyway, she was sick. Her doctor agreed. Every month he signed her off and doled out the Prozac and the Valium. There was no way they would be allowed to take money off a sick woman with four weens. Somebody would put a stop to it. Obviously they would.
Slowly her soggy brain registered more knocking at the back door. Christ. Like Hyde Park bloody corner. Probably Sponge back from another round of thieving. But it wasn’t Sponge. It was Sheena and the reporter bloke from London.
“Hi Bexx. Got a minute?”
“Aye, hen. Come on in. Just watching tele so I am. Want a cuppa?”
They took seats at the kitchen table where a half smoked joint smouldered in an ashtray. Bexx was all slow motion as she did the honours with the tea, finding it hard to remember where the sugar was even though it had been in the same place for ten years. “Have a toke if you want Sheena hen.”
“No thanks. All done with that now.”
“What? Even a spliff like?”
“Done with all of it hen.”
“What about you? Like a toke do you? Sorry. Cannae remember your name”
Jason smiled and shook his head. “It’s Jason. Once upon a time. Now the problem is that it would get me writing even worse shite than usual.”
Bexx shrugged, somewhat confused. It wasn’t like it was smack or anything. She deposited mugs in front of her guests and started the job of working her way through a pack of Maryland chocolate cookies that she had picked up the day before as part of a £2 carrier bag deal from Sponge.
“So Jason. What do you make of all this nae money shite they’ll all talking about?”
“That’s why we called actually. To get your thoughts on things. See what your plans are?”
Bexx spat out a disgusted batch of crumbs. “Plans! How’s the likes of me going to make plans? I’ve got four weens to look after and I’m sick. I cannae make plans.”
“But you’re going to have to make some pretty big changes.”
“Like what?” The shiver of unease was back.
“Well, have you got any savings?”
“How do you mean?”
“Money put by. In the bank. A back stop for a rainy day.”
Another shower of amused crumbs. “You must be joking. How can the likes of me save money? I’m not some stuck up bitch with a fancy job. I’m trying to raise four weens here.”
“So no plans then?”
The warm glow of her three morning joints was all gone away. Instead, a gnawing, chewing paranoia wormed its way into her guts along with the Maryland cookies.
“What plans should I be making then?”
“Well I suppose the big question is whether or not you feel you might be able to get a job to pay the rent here. Or do you think you will all have to move into one of the dormitories?”
“A job! Are you kidding? How can I get a job? I’m sick. I’ve got four weens. I cannae manage a job with four weens. How am I supposed to do that then?”
Jason crashed fags around the table. “They announced yesterday that all schools will be open from eight until eight. Basically you can drop the kids early in the morning and they can be looked after for up to twelve hours. It frees you up to work.”
“But I’m sick. I get depression.”
“That will be up to you. You will need to weigh up what makes you most depressed. Working and being able to stay here, or killing time all day in one of the dorms.”
“So I’m supposed to sleep in a room full of Neds and junkies? And ma weens!”
“Actually no. They say there will be family rooms. You will all have a room of your own.”
“What, all five of us?”
Jason nodded.
“But they cannae do that.”
“They can do what they like. They are the Government.”
Now the paranoia was chewing through every inch of her. “So if we get nae money how are we supposed to eat?”
“The food station. They promise three hot meals a day to anyone who wants them.”
“And clothes and that for the weens?”
“Clothes banks.”
“I’m not dressing ma weens in any charity shop shite.”
“Actually I gather the childrens’ clothes will all be new. From Cambodia I think. They will double up as school uniform.”
“And what about me?”
“Hopefully you will have enough clothes to keep you going until you get a job.”
Suddenly it registered with Bexx that this wasn’t paranoia any more. This was real and it was coming and it was an almost unimaginable nightmare. Suddenly her brassy voice was much, much smaller.
“Why are they doing this to me? What the hell have I done?”
“They’re doing to everyone Bexx. Nobody has done anything. The country has just run out of money, that’s all.”
“But how can a country run out of money?”
“It happens. And it has happened to us. It is going to be a very different world I’m afraid.”
There were tears now. Helpless and desperate. She had been putting her head firmly in the sand at the Spar shop and down the pub. Playing the could’nae give a shite card. Playing the what a load of bollocks card. But now it dawned on her that there might not be too many more cards to play.
“So when’s all this going to happen?”
“You will get your last payments next week. They will give you a month’s notice on the house. Then you either find a job to pay the rent or you’ll have to go to the dormitory. Or move in with family of course. Or borrow from family.”
“Are you kidding? All of us are the same. We’ll all be in the poxy dormitory together. The whole of bastarding Greenfield will be there. Then what? Are they just going to leave all these houses empty to become shooting galleries or what?”
“Probably not. The new rent will be about £30 a week. The waiting lists are full of people who are working who have been wanting a house for years. They just have never managed to get enough points to be considered a priority. Most are still living with their parents or sharing flats in the town. Now they will easily be able to afford the rent and get a place of their own.”
“That’s not fair. What makes them so special? They don’t even have any weens or nothing.”
“It isn’t about fairness. It’s all down to money. They have jobs, they can afford the rent. Simple as that. It is how things are going to be from now on. Anyway, look. I have a draft of the article we talked about. I changed all your details like we discussed. I’m calling you Jen and saying you have five kids. Nobody will know it is you. Would you like to read it over?”
“No. Just so long nobody kens it’s me like. Did you come up with any cash?”
“I did. £300. Maybe it would be a good idea to put it to one side and use it pay up some advance rent. It will give you a couple of months to try and find something..”
“Aye. Maybe.” She counted the money twice and pocketed it.

THE VIEW FROM ROLLERTON
By special correspondent, Jason Marsh
JEN

‘Ever read any Jane Austin? Or Charlotte Bronte? Or Thomas Hardy? Maybe. Set text for an English lit ‘O’ Level? Whatever. Bet you’ve watched a mini series on the box. Assuming you have either seen or read, then you will be more than familiar with the story of one of the female characters in the story having a thoroughly good match arranged for her. You know the kind of thing. Squire Engleby is interested and he has 200 acres with good shooting and a settlement of a hundred guineas a year. A hard faced mother will bully her tearful daughter into the wedding despite her head over heels passion for a penniless cavalryman. This kind of thing once upon a time went all the way to the top as the royal houses of Europe inter-bred with each other to forge alliances and build territory. It is nothing new and it is isn’t all that long since it was the height of respectability. Daughters followed the same path as their mothers and grandmothers.
In a way, Jen is no different. She never knew her dad. He was a great unknown. A one night stand when her mum was seventeen. Jen was the middle one of three and there was no dad for any of them. Mum never worked. Instead she reared her brood care of the state. The family never went short. They were housed and there was always enough in the coffers for food and a house and clothes and nights out for mum and an occasional holiday in the sun. As Jen grew up she was never around anyone who actually worked. Instead the lessons she learned were how to max up on the many benefits on offer. She saw school work as a waste of time and her mum wasn’t about to disagree. Her raw intelligence ensured that she managed to learn to read and write reasonably well, but that was about it. She was generally considered to be a bonnie lass and there were always plenty of local lads eager to have their wicked way. Like mother like daughter, Jen first fell pregnant a few weeks after her sixteenth birthday. How did mum feel about this? Was she distraught that her daughter would be tied down by motherhood and unable to go to college and start a career? Not at all. Mum viewed her daughter’s young pregnancy in the same way that those Victorian matriarchs once viewed excellent matches with landowning squires.
Had Jen avoided getting pregnant where would she have been now? Maybe she would have a job in a supermarket or a high street shop. What would that bring in? Maybe £160 a week after tax. Maybe just about enough to pay the rent and council tax on a small flat, but that would not leave her a lot for herself. Instead Jen followed the family tradition and pursued a far more lucrative career. By the time she was twenty seven her brood had grown to five and the cash was rolling in. Right now she receives almost £400 a week. There is no tax and all of her rent and council tax tabs are all picked up. Best of all, there is no requirement for her to do so much as ten minutes of work to earn the cash for Jen is signed off sick with depression which spares her annoying visits to Job Centre Plus and gives her a comforting base of free prescription Valium and Prozac.
Jen makes her £400 a week go a long way. Sometimes she visits the local supermarket or Spar shop for provisions, but not often. Every day she receives home deliveries care of a helpful heroin user who we will call Rolo. Rolo receives shopping lists from Jen and he fills them accordingly. Jen pays him about a third of the marked price for what she buys. A £20 bag of stolen shopping will change hands for £6 or £7. It is a well established routine. Rolo gets the list, nicks the stuff, sells it to Jen and races round to the nearest dealer for the next tenner bag. Then the process repeats and repeats and repeats. Jen’s kids are dressed from head to toe in top end designer gear. They have fancy phones and every electrical goodie the market can offer and all of it has been supplied by the gallant Rolo at a third of cost. Not surprisingly there is always plenty of disposable income left over for treats. Jen works her way through an average of £40 of cannabis every week and goes out at least three nights. When she hits the town, she likes to dress up and live it large. An average night of double vodka and cokes, a club, a Chinese takeaway and a cab home will run to £60 or £70. So no problems there then.
Well, you all know what is coming next. In less than a week’s time the gravy train will be pulling clear of the station. Jen is about to see her income drop from £400 a week to zero. The good news is that the rent on her house is due to fall by over 50% to £30 a week. The bad news is that this will have absolutely no impact for Jen as she has never paid a penny of rent in her life. So what are her options? Well the obvious answer is to get out there and find a job in order to pay the rent and put food on the table for the family. If the job is only enough to cover the rent, then they can eat at the nearest feeding station. Will this happen? Well, Jen has never had a job and so the idea is rather alien and there will be ferocious competition for the few jobs Rollerton has to offer. I wouldn’t bet the mortgage on her finding anything. A much more likely outcome will see the whole family decamping to one of the family rooms in the nearest dormitory. No more designer clothes, no more takeaway food, no more living it large up the town, no more daily payments for Rolo. It is going to come as one hell of a shock to the system for Jen and all the hundreds and thousands of other Jens all over Britain. Life will bring new and demanding challenges – a long, hard rocky path to find work and enough money for a house of their own. Maybe she’ll make it, maybe not. How will she take it? I suppose we are all about to find out. Jen and her children are very used to a very comfortable standard of life and it is all about to be taken away. Will they meekly accept their family room, free meals and zero income? Or will they and many, many others lose the plot and hit the streets to burn the world down? We will all have to watch this space.’

EXTRACT TWO

The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was focussed on sitting very, very still. He was determined to show not so much as a shred of emotion. Were they watching? Probably. They probably had some kind of in house expert reading his face. For what? Stress? Determination? Chronic, gnawing, exhaustion?
Whatever.
As his teenage daughters would say.
Let them watch and analyse. It wouldn’t get them anywhere. He analysed himself in the bathroom mirror every morning as the razor moved mechanically across his face. Every morning he watched his skin and hair go greyer and the lines run deeper. In the beginning he had hated the fact that he had to wear make up so much of the time. Now he would feel naked without it.
Sometimes he would watch the footage of himself and Linda and the girls as they stepped into Number Ten. Beaming and waving and all ready to make a better world. The day he reached the top of the pile. The day he was added to the list that included Peel and Gladstone and Disraeli and Lloyd George and Churchill.
And Thatcher.
And Blair.
And now Pendleton.
Oh there was no Empire anymore. Only the Falklands and the six counties of Northern Ireland. And it seemed highly unlikely that he would be required to lead his people into a war with France or Germany. My God though, there had been plenty of times when he had been bloody tempted. There had been times when he had lain awake at night and fantasised about getting the High Command to enter the co-ordinates for Paris and Berlin into the box that controlled the Trident subs lurking deep beneath the Atlantic. Paris and Berlin and bloody Washington DC.
Bastards, the bloody lot of them.
Bastards.
Five minutes into his new home with the famous door with the famous number and they had shown him how to work the box. The ultimate code. In a world of code numbers for bank accounts and websites and gym lockers, he was given the big one. The end of history code. And it was supposed to make him feel like he was powerful. All conquering. Mighty.
As if.
The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The Chief Executive of Great Britain and Northern Ireland Plc, and from the get go it was clear that the liquidators were already waiting outside the door. By the time he won the big prize, nine years had passed since the casino bankers had tipped the country over the edge. Nine years of borrowing from anyone daft enough to lend and crossing fingers and toes and cheques.
And like his predecessors, he had done the brave face thing. Done it bloody well. Oh of course, times are tough. Really tough. But of course Britain will be fine. Britain is always fine. We saw off Napoleon and Hitler and the Red Peril and the IRA. And now we’ll see this one off, just you wait and see. Britain will rise from the ashes and resume our rightful place at the top table.
And before he had taken up residence in the famous house with the famous door with the policeman outside, he had probably just about believed it.
Not any more. Not having had the truth stare him in the face for three endless, gruelling years.
Britain was a busted flush.
End of.
As his teenage daughters would say.
And this time there would be no magic fix to stave off the baying creditors.
No more slaves to sell.
No more opium to punt into China.
No more billion cowed Indians to bully into buying cotton socks form Rochdale and cartons of salt from Cheshire.
No more North Sea oil.
No more telephone companies to sell.
No more tax bounty from the square mile of the City.
No more nothing.
Only a country way past its sell by date.
Like Greece.
Like Spain.
Like Turkey.
Like Mongolia for Christ’s sake.
A country that had once supplied the whole world with cotton and coal and steel and steam engines and machine tools and medicines.
And now? Now it was Premier League football and a few anorexic celebrities with their estuary English and desperate exhibitionism.
For three years he had done what was expected of him. He had made his telegenic face look right on television. He had done the earnest thing and reassured his people that it would all be OK in the end. Of course it would.
And he had done his best to fly the flag around the world and persuade the creditors that their money was safe.
Like a sharp salesman.
Like a con man in a cheap suit.
And now this. This room with its oil paintings of the old aristocracy in all their finery. Who were the people on the walls? The Duke of this and the Duchess of that. Smug faced and fat from all their acres. And their slave ships. And their sugar plantations. And their opium deals. And their bloody derivatives. And no doubt their ancestors would all now be skulking somewhere in Monaco or Nassau. The rats who had left the sinking ship as fast as their private jets could carry them once the City Casino had hit the bricks back in 2007.
Bastards.
Who owned the great eighteenth century mansion now? Some corporation with paperwork lodged in a bank vault somewhere. Not the Duke of this or Duchess of that. No chance of that. Maybe oil money. Probably oil money. Oil money seemed to own more or less everything these days.
He had first come to the big house a month earlier. He had been summoned. Ordered. Like he had once been ordered to go to the headmaster’s office to be caned. He was the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and he had been ordered to attend at 10pm sharp. They hadn’t actually said not to be late, but it had been implied. Come and come alone. Oh, you can bring your security of course. They can wait outside. But no colleagues or advisors or civil servants or spin doctors. Just you Christopher. And don’t tell anyone. What we have to say is for your ears only. Got that? Good. Because it is very important that you do get it. You see, we’re in no mood to be pissed about Christopher. OK?
Good-oh.
He could still hear the voice on the phone. ‘Good-oh’. The bastard. The arrogant, octogenarian Australian bastard.
Gall.
Lester Gall.
The man with all the newspapers and TV channels and radio shows. The man who made the anorexic celebrities and broke them when they were all used up. The man who boasted about how he could swing a General Election any which way he pleased. The man who seemed to have bought and paid for half the MPs of the Prime Minister’s Party. And half of those on the benches of Her Majesty’s Opposition.
And on the phone, Lester Gall had called the Prime Minister ‘matey’ and told him to attend a meeting at 10pm and to keep it to himself. And when the Prime Minister had agreed, Gall had said ‘good-oh’ and killed the call without saying goodbye.
Bastard.
And Christopher Pendleton had done as instructed. He had left by the back door and been secreted out of the city and into the rolling acres that had once upon a time been the domain of some great Duke.
And they had made him wait in this very same room with the oil paintings and the high ceiling and the chandelier and the heavy velvet drapes and the Persian rug. And no doubt they had watched him via some carefully hidden camera, and maybe they had chuckled at his weakness.
The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland made to wait like some naughty schoolboy.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Until a door opened and a power dressed young woman with a perma-tan and pearly, pearly teeth had told him they were ready for him.
They.
The money.
Oil and telecommunications and retail and pharmaceuticals. The men of the super corporations. $20,000 suits and private jets and share options and bulging accounts in banks in tax havens.
Ten of them.
Hard faced bastards.
Smug faced bastards.
And Lester Gall in the middle.
“Ah. Chris you old bugger. Look, you best have a scotch matey. Have a bloody big one. Reckon you’re going to need it sport.”
Matey. Sport. Bastard.
They had a spokesman. More perma-tan and teeth. A three hours a day in the gym type. No doubt a coming man. Smooth. Deadly.
He ran a power point presentation covering everything the Prime Minister knew only too well. The debt was out of hand. The creditors had decided that enough was enough. The IMF had made draconian demands.
Britain was a busted flush.
Gall listened with a sneer and when the presentation was done he rose to his feet and splashed more scotch into the Prime Minister’s untouched glass.
“We’re all pissed off Chris. And we’re all wondering whether it’s worth staying in this shitty little country of yours. We got wind of what the IMF had to say to your Chancellor when he called round with his begging bowl.”
The Prime Minister stared ahead. Of course it was supposed to have been a secret, but nothing was secret to these men. They owned everyone. Maybe they owned the Chancellor.
Gall ground on. Strutting the room. Waving his arms. An angry, skinny old man with way, way too much power.
“Seems like it is a pretty up and down choice Chris. You either hammer up taxes or you slash costs. Simple as that. So we decided we best have a little chat. Maybe you might just get tempted to jack up a few taxes. Maybe you might have a go at hitting on the big corporations to drag yourselves out of the shit. Well, you might as well know that if you do, we’re off matey. As in up sticks and head for the hills. You’re not going to bail yourself out by scalping us matey. No bloody way. It ain’t going to happen. End of. Hear what I’m saying matey?”
The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland nodded and stared ahead into space.
“Just so long as that’s clear sport. You either cut costs or we piss off. Simple as that. Our people have run the numbers and we pretty much agree with the IMF. 20% Chris. 20% and 20% now. No kicking the bastard into the long grass until the next election is done and dusted. We’re talking an announcement within two months and immediate implementation. No spinning it Chris. No spin and no bollocks. It’s 20% or we’re all off and then you really will be screwed. We’ve got a few ideas, but really it is your job to decide how you’re going to do it. Shit, you’re the Prime Minister matey. So we’ll leave it to you to make the call. But it’s going to have to be real Chris. No trimming around the edges. It needs to be real and it needs to be bloody huge. And it needs to be now. Yeah? This is Price by the way.”
Gall nodded to Mr Perma-tan and teeth who had run the power point analysis of Britain’s doom. Price nodded.
“Bloody sharp cookie our Mr Price. Oxford and Harvard and the whole bloody nine yards. Hire him as a special advisor. He’s the only one you discuss this with. OK? No bugger else. Just Pricey here. And Pricey has access to all our collective resources and quite frankly that is a bloody sight more than your resources. So you kick it around with Pricey and you find an answer that will make us happy. Otherwise it’s bye, bye time. Clear?”
The Prime Minister nodded.
“Is that all?”
Gall smeared a grin across his wizened face.
“Yeah. I reckon that’s about it. Not drinking your scotch then?”
“No thank you.”
“Fair enough. You might as well bugger off then. We’ll see in a month then.”
And so he had burned the midnight oil for night after night. Just him and Price who was so high flying that it was scary. They crunched their numbers and ran their scenarios and no matter what Christopher asked for, Price always had it by the next day. The man didn’t seem to need any sleep. And his tan never faded. And slowly but surely Price had eased him to finding the right answer. The only answer. The answer that the big money had wanted all along. The only answer that they would be willing to accept.
A month of laying awake at night and just wishing that it could have been someone else’s job to own up to the cold, hard truth. Anyone else. Anyone but Christopher Pendleton. Oh and course he had thought about chucking in the towel and resigning. To ride off into the sunset and do a Blair. Write his book and charge top dollar on the speaking circuit. But he knew in his heart of hearts that such an option wasn’t on the table. The big money men wouldn’t allow him a sunset to ride off into. There would be no big pay off like Blair. Instead they would crucify him in the media and make sure that his life would be a prolonged misery. Destiny had decreed that he was to be the one to own up to the fact that the ‘Great’ in Great Britain was nothing more than an outdated joke.
And now the time had come to present his plan to the men of the big money. It was all just show of course. A silly game. An extra humiliation. Of course Price would have already briefed them in every detail. But they needed to hear it from the mouth of the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The horse’s mouth. They had deemed that the humiliation was a part of the process.
Bastards.
The door opened and Miss tan and teeth ushered in James Hawkes, the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition. Chris wondered if he was surprised. Not really. Not at all in fact. Hawkes greeted him with a rueful smile.
“Hello Chris.”
“James.”
At noon every Wednesday the two of them tore into each other like rabid dogs at Prime Minister’s question time, but whenever they were away from the cameras they got along well enough.
For a few moments the two men stared at the pictures on the wall, not really sure what to say to each other. Pendleton broke the spell.
“So when did they call you in James?”
“Just after you. Or so I gather.”
The PM nodded thoughtfully. “They wouldn’t what their plans buggering up by a pesky back bench revolt. All party support and all that.”
“Quite. Can I assume that you have proposals?”
“Oh yes James. I have proposals.”
“Right.”
A door opened and Miss tan and teeth beckoned them forward.
“Ah Chris. Jim. Just the bloody job. Here. Grab a pew. Drink? No? Fair enough.”
Like an aged elf thought Christopher.
Evil elf.
Bastard elf.
“Well no point beating about the bloody bush then. Let’s hear it Chris.”
The Prime Minister quietly cleared his throat and straightened his tie.
“I will be brief as no doubt Mr Price has already fully briefed you all.”
He slowly moved his eyes along the line of faces. The men in front of all the billions. Trillions.
“The demand as you all know is an immediate 20% cut in government spending. This of course is a quite enormous figure. Quite unprecedented. Such a task will require the kind of drastic action only usually taken during a time of war. The actions will be hugely unpopular and public order will be a major consideration. In the light of this I must say that I am very happy that you have brought my honourable friend here.”
James Hawes gave a short nod to the room. Christopher ploughed on.
“I have addressed the task at hand whilst maintaining two key principles. In order to stand a chance of maintaining public order, two key elements must be in place. Number one, there must be no cuts in expenditure on either the police or the armed services. In fact, I anticipate extra expenditure. Secondly, and vitally, the government must retain at least an element of moral authority in order to be able keep control. What does this mean? It means we keep the NHS with a few modest tweaks. It means we keep old age pensions and all programmes which help the elderly. We will also maintain public spending on education and public transport as to do otherwise would be to write off the country’s future. For the sake of morale, we will also maintain expenditure on many seemingly non-essential programmes such as the Arts Council, museums, libraries etc. This we hope will help to maintain an element of public morale.”
He took a sip of water before jumping off the cliff.
“To reduce public expenditure by 20% we will cancel most state benefits with immediate effect. Unemployment benefits, sickness benefits for all but the very most infirm, child benefit, family tax credits, housing benefit, council tax benefits. These savings will come to a great deal more than the 20% target that has been indicated. The savings are made firstly by not only paying out the monies in question, and secondly disposing of the required administrative structure to make the payments. These savings are in fact in excess of 30%. We will therefore be making some changes that will eat up some of the savings. There will be no tax payable on any earnings below £15,000 per annum. There will be no National Insurance payable on earnings below £15,000 per annum. We will abolish the minimum wage with immediate effect.”
Another pause. Another sip of water.
“Over the last few years we have heard a great deal of talk about the Nanny State. Quite frankly, this is not a label that I have ever had much time for. That however is immaterial. These changes will herald the end of the Nanny State. Britain will become a much harsher country. Millions of our citizens are woefully ill equipped to thrive in such an environment. They will be angry and confused and the prospect of widespread public disorder is more or less a certainty. I will have some contingency plans in place to deal with this. These plans are none of your concern. Neither are they the concern of Mr Price. You are businessmen. You live in a world of balance sheets and share options. You have no conception of how to deal with a public revolt. That is my realm. The political realm. And I am afraid it is a very secret realm and none of you are welcome.”
He stared out the bloated faces one by one.
“All of you are very impressed by your own power. Understandably so. But don’t allow yourselves to get carried away. None of you have the power to make a single phone call to Hereford to summon up ultimate force. I have that power gentlemen. I could make that call and any one of you would disappear of the face of this planet within twelve hours. Oh you all have your silly security around you, but I would dearly love to see them try and take on the SAS. This is my world gentlemen. And James’s. Keep out. Order will be maintained in this country, that is all you need to know. That is all you are going to know. This is no place for shopkeepers…”
“Now you just wait a bloody minute here……”
Gall was jumping to his feet.
Angry elf
Bastard elf.
“Sit down Lester. And shut up. You have your deal. Now you get the terms.”
Gall was crimson faced, but he sat.
“I will not allow anyone to starve in this country and if any of you demand it, then you are more than welcome to up sticks and go. Every town with a population greater than 20,000 will have a feeding station. These stations will provide breakfast, lunch and dinner to anyone in possession of the required identity. Essentially this means anyone. They will be the ones who at present are unemployed or signed off sick. The food will be plain but nutritious. It will contain all the required minerals and vitamins. I very much doubt whether anyone in work and thereby in funds would be remotely tempted to freeload. If they do, then they are welcome. All meals will be delivered in liquid form by tankers – porridge for breakfast, soup for lunch and stew for dinner. We will initially make use of the fleet used by milk companies. In time the government will invest in its own fleet. Initially the meals will be manufactured by existing food companies following a tendering process. Foreign companies will not be invited to tender. All ingredients will be grown and sourced within the UK.”
Another sip of water.
“I will not countenance any citizen of Great Britain sleeping rough unless it is their choice. We will therefore instigate an immediate programme to construct dormitory facilities in all towns. These will be basic facilities offering a bed with clean sheets, warmth and washing facilities. Once again, use of a dormitory will be available to anyone who requires it. They are unlikely to be particularly happy places. Once again we do not anticipate any freeloading.”
Again he allowed his eyes to meet other eyes around the table.
“Our country is about to become a harder place. However nobody is going to starve and nobody is going to have to sleep in the rain. In our new future, even an hour’s work will be a thing to be valued. We have a generation who will be quite unable to cope and we will have to keep their bodies and souls together. Maybe for the rest of their lives. Future generations will see the world in a very different light. We anticipate academic achievement to rise dramatically over the coming years as young people channel a fear for the future into better attainment. In time, our country will find its way back onto its feet. Until that time we will have to rule with a firm hand. We are going back to the Autumn of 1940 gentlemen and somehow we must rediscover the spirit of those dark days. I ask that every one of you plays your part in this, especially you Mr Gall. The time for pushing the gaudy wealth of non-entity celebrities and footballers in the faces of the public is over. Up until now it has been merely been distasteful. Not any more. Now such inappropriate nonsense could easily be a trigger for rioting. We are entering a time of sobriety and I expect that to be reflected in the media. I will not tolerate any more of your pathetic celebrity culture. If you cross me on this, then you will be leaving this country and your leaving will not be dignified. The rest of you will be happy enough I am sure. The end of the minimum wage will ensure that your profits will rise dramatically. On your instructions, Mr Price has been insisting on a cut in Corporation tax. This will not be happening gentlemen. You are being granted your pound of flesh. Two pounds is out of the question. I will also require you to make some further changes. No longer will you come in and out of this country on private jets. You can park them in Paris if you like and take the train. I also expect all of you to close any overseas accounts that you might operate. And do not try and hide this, gentlemen. I have a place called GCHQ remember. I can find out when each and every one of you goes for a shit. If you spend more than a fortnight in this country, then you will pay the appropriate rate of tax on any income derived in this country. And that is non negotiable. Bang the table if you wish but it will not make a jot of difference. I am granting you the most motivated, best educated and cheapest labour force in the developed world. That will have to be enough. You will all make huge fortunes. All that I demand is that you do not flaunt these fortunes and that you pay a fair amount of tax on those fortunes. If this idea sticks in your throat, I suggest you buy yourselves some history books and take a look at what happened to the super rich in Russia in 1917. It wasn’t pretty.”
Another pause.
Another look at angry faces. There was much he had said that Mr Price had not prepared them for.
Well screw them.
“If you don’t like it and want to go, then just go. If you are going, then make your announcements in the next month. If I hear nothing, then I will assume that you have agreed the terms I have outlined and decided to stay. The changes I have outlined will be announced a month’s time. There is no question of doing so any sooner as many things will have to be put in place.”
Now Pendleton turned to the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition.
“Can I rely on your support James?”
James Hawkes gave a grave nod. In fact he really felt rather like cheering. It wasn’t every day that Lester Gall got it with both barrels and he would have happily laid out big money for his seat in the front row. Gall by now was all out of patience. Up on his feet and looking like something out of Lord of the Rings. A bad something.
“Now you listen here you jumped up Pommie bastard….”
Pendleton’s voice snapped like the crack of a whip.
“No you listen Mr Gall. You started this thing and I’m going to end it. If you’re not happy, then piss off. I’ll take you to the door myself with a song in my heart. We don’t need you and your scummy rags. In fact we would be a whole lot better off without you. The same does not go for the other gentlemen around the table. They make things. They employ people by the thousand. They contribute. You don’t Gall. You’re a leech. A cancer. You peddle puerile crap day in day out and all the while you help dumb down our citizens to drooling bloody morons. So if you want to go, then for Christ’s sake, just go. And go now. But if you stay, consider your card well and truly marked. You play ball or I’ll personally crucify you. No more celebrity bullshit and no more tax dodging. Are we clear Mr Gall?”
“Oh yeah right. I’m quivering in my bloody boots here matey.”
“Do any of your staff break the speed limit in their fancy cars Mr Gall? Do any of your beautiful people carry grammes of coke in their designer suits Mr Gall? Do any of your people have child porn on their laptops Mr Gall? Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. It doesn’t matter you see. Because I can make all of these things happen. I can make them happen to you Gall. I can fill your personal PC up with the worst paedophile images you’ve ever dreamt of. And then I will sign off on SO19 crashing down your front door and dragging you our in plasticuffs. And I will personally ensure that every last one of your competitors are waiting on the pavement outside to get the pictures. So don’t try my patience Gall. Don’t even think about it.”
Christopher Pendleton hadn’t noticed getting to his feet. He hadn’t noticed the rise in his voice. He hadn’t noticed crossing the room to stand so close to the media baron’s face that his spittle had splashed onto wizened cheeks.
Now he noticed.
Now he saw the naked fear in the watery old eyes.
And he liked it.
Loved it.
He slowly stepped back.
“That’s all. You all have a month. If you stay, you pay your share. If any one of you tries to dodge so much as a penny of tax I will wipe you out. I will be issuing instructions to GCHQ to monitor every phone and computer you own. 24/7 gentlemen. 24/7. Stay and you can make a pot of money and pay a more than fair proportion of tax. Cross me and you’ll wish you had never been born. Good evening.”
And with that he strode out. Taller. Prouder. The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.