22. Knowing Mine Enemies

What Ho Proles!

[In addition to posting my Proles Corner piece, below, I'm also putting up a chunk of my memoir. I'd have My Man edit it down a bit but after nearly losing him the other day, I thought I'd go easy on the fellow.]

Friday, 15th April, 2005. AKA: The Following Morning...

I awoke early to welcome a pot of piping hot coffee into my room, followed pretty swiftly by the majority of a loaf (toasted) which I duly went about stressing under lashings of strawberry jam. My Man has many skills but his ability to apply cold butter to warm bread is second to none. As he cleared the dishes away, I complimented him on looking so well recovered from his martial action the previous day and he left me to wrestle with the newspapers and conquer the Times crossword. I was to have little success on either front.

Pretty soon, I was soon stuck at fifteen across, pondering the ways that ‘Chinese whispers leave Belgian monks looking for petroleum jelly’, when Melvin Jenkins came blustering into my room to inform me that I would soon have to field a few hundred telephone calls. It seems that he’d been up since dawn organising radio stations across the country eager to pick up on the big story of the previous day and now busting a gut to wag chins with the famous Tory and his duck.
I could see that this was work best seen off by keeping to my warm bed. I promptly despatched My Man to harass Mr. Mullins and record a couple of his trademark quacks on tape. I could then field the calls from between warm sheets where toes and duck affairs seemed to fit hand in glove, or at least, bunion to shank.

By noon, the radio stations were all done, dusted, and happy with my chat and pre-recorded duck calls. It was time to change out of my peejays and move my base of operations to the old nursery.

My toes would be colder there but this is the grim life one reads about in this kind of modern political diaries. There are hard political realities we sometimes need to face and you can only face them when wearing patented leather shoes. Today’s reality would be my getting to know my enemy.

It has been a singular omission of mine that my memoirs have yet to contain a single detail of my political opponents who would be lining up to face me on the election night on May 5th. A story cannot exist without antagonists yet mine has done pretty well so far. It’s my own fault, I know, wanting to protect you from those odd people of the political left, but now I think I’ve shielded you enough. It’s time to let you see the task ahead of me. I can’t promise you it will be pleasant, but we are all adults. We shall just have to try our best.

Besides, I’d grown tired of talking about ducks. It was time to talk turkey and that’s why I called my campaign team together in order to discuss the elephant in the room.

‘I need facts,’ I said to Team Murgatroid as I stretched my heels up and down the nursery. ‘Who are my opponents? How do we beat them? What are their weaknesses? What do they know? What do they want? Are they open to bribes? If so: how much? How do we pay them? What will they spend the money on? Is it legal? If not: can we blackmail them? If so: how?’

My questions hung in the air and I gazed around the room waiting to see which member of my top flight political team would provide some decent answers.

I looked first at my agent, Cyril Henderson, who was sitting at the head of the table, with Larry Harris, campaign manager, at his side.

Cyril looked as indifferent as any man might look when trying to tackle tough political questions when not wearing any underwear.

Larry, on the other hand, was looking his phlegmatic best; absorbing all but saying little, a bit like one of those Greek statues he loves so much. If only Cyril would have taken a lesson out of Larry’s book. There is, I feel, a salutary lesson about Y fronts giving a man a stable foundation for the day.

Colonel Cropper was at the other end of the table, fiddling with something small, electrical, and more than likely to go ‘whizz bang’ at any second. I didn’t like to look at him for too long lest I make him nervous and triggered a detonation. The last thing I wanted were any of his fingers ricocheting around the room.

Melvin Jenkins sat silently at a side table where Mrs. Priggs’ had put two plates of her celebrated all butter shortcake biscuits. I’d told My Man to keep an eye on the blighter but, to my eyes, Jenkins had put on a pound or so in a matter of days.

It was quite a relief to turn my eyes to the svelte Samantha Spoon. Not only was she a trim five feet eleven, but she was the only person who looked to be doing anything productive. She was setting documents out across on the table and constantly moving sheets between folders. I watched her for a few moments, being a great admirer of the ancient British art of paper shuffling.

It was Cyril Henderson who finally took my lead.

‘I’ve asked Samantha to compile dossiers,’ he explained, looking to the blond locks swirling around a body that was now loosing papers from a pile of folders in varying shades of political hue.

‘I have it all here,’ she said, finally setting six files out before her. She smiled at me and ran a finger over an ear to lodge her hair back there. ‘I think we’re ready.’

Cyril reached forward and took one of the folders. ‘Where would you like to begin?’ he asked, looking at me.

‘What are my choices?’

Samantha fanned out the remaining files. ‘You have six opponents,’ she said. ‘Naturally, we have the Labour Party candidate. Where would we be without the lovely labour lot?’

‘Like media consultants around freshly baked biscuits?’ suggested Larry.

Melvin Jenkin’s curse came out as a cloud of crumbs.

‘Then,’ said Spoon, ‘we have the Liberal Democrats. As we all know, they had a four thousand majority at the last election and have made noises about increasing it this time around.’

‘They should coco,’ I spat. ‘The only way they’ll get more support is if lentils are given the vote. Nobody votes for them unless they’re mightily displeased with us Tories or they want to give the Labour lot a bloody nose.’

It was good to see Larry agree with me. ‘Classic protest voting,’ he said. ‘Things will be different this time around.’

Samantha allowed our exchange to finish before she looked back at her notes.

‘Well that leaves only the Greens, the UK Independence Party, and a candidate for Respect.’ She looked up and rolled her eyes. ‘You know,’ she said. ‘The “Stop the War” lot?’

‘That’s still only five parties,’ I noted.

‘Ah,’ she replied, looking towards the tan file in Cyril’s hands. ‘We also have one another candidate... But he’s just an independent. I didn’t think it worth mentioning...’

Cyril Henderson coughed as a momentary silence fell over the room.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we need worry about that one. Nothing to worry your head about, J.P.! Let’s ignore these silly parties, shall we, Samantha? We should concentrate on the real contenders.’

I tutted back his naïve assumptions. ‘It’s a hotbed of independent activism, around here,’ I said.

‘Don’t underestimate the indies. What are they called? What’s the raison d’être? Can we bribe them or otherwise bring them down?’

Samantha brushed the hair from her eyes and began to go thump through some pages. ‘I really don’t know...’ she spluttered.

I can spot hesitancy a mile off but when a rum lark sits right under my nose I begin to get worried.

‘Is there something about this I shouldn’t know?’ I asked.

She blushed slightly, began to speak, but then fell silent again. With an audible sigh, Cyril Henderson opened the tan folder.

‘The party is called the Thump Alliance,’ he said.

I laughed. Rash, I know, but there you have me in a nutshell: impulsive in the extreme.

‘What kind of party is called Thump?’ I asked.

‘It’s an acronym,’ explained Cyril.

‘Oh good!’ cried Larry. ‘A game! Are we all to guess what it stands for? Well, I’ll go first. Now, let me see... Thump. T. H. U. M. P.’ He scratched his chin for a moment or two. ‘Is it The Humane Unlicensed Monkey Patrol?’

That was it. The team was away, cracking the code with solutions than ran from the surreal to the absurd.

‘Thursday’s Hot Uncensored Mooning Parade?’ said Colonel Cropper. I thought this a bit of a worrying suggestion and reminded myself to put a watch of the man. I’m a great believer in the subconscious sending out signals when we’re doing spontaneous tasks.

‘Trees Hurt Under Mankind’s Patronage’ was Ms. Spoon’s rather environmental suggestion. I thought it a definite candidate.

‘Taste Ham Under My Pillow?’ asked Melvin, clearly struggling with the concept of the acronym game, though I thought it a nice touch that his solution said something about him and his dietary requirements. I made a note to also put a watch on him. At the very least, I’d have Mrs. Priggs check under his pillow. It’s not a place for ham. Not even when it’s tinned.

Still, as the silly suggestions carried on, I thought I’d try one of my own.

‘Tread Humans Under Murgatroid Plimsolls’ I said.

There was polite laughter, except for Cyril and Samantha who said looking at in silence.

‘I thought it had a ring to it,’ I told them in protest.

Cyril looked nervously around the room.

‘The thing is, J.P. You’re almost right.’

‘I am?’

‘T.H.U.M.P stands for The Horrible Unlikeable Murgatroid Protest. It doesn’t have much of a ring to it, but then, these acronyms rarely do...’

I could have told him that I gave no hoot about acronyms. ‘I don’t understand?’ I said.

Cyril nodded. ‘They hope to gather protest votes.’

‘Protest votes against what exactly?’

Cyril leaned forward and cleared his throat.

‘Well, actually, J.P., they’re protesting against you.’

‘Me?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘But why would somebody go to the trouble of protesting against me?’

He shrugged. ‘Have you any enemies? Think who you might have upset in the last couple of years.’

I sat down, the effect of my morning toast and jam finally wearing thin.

‘Should I list them alphabetically or chronologically?’ I asked. ‘To be honest, alphabetically might be easiest. I could go at them in groups and...’

Larry Harris stood up and walked to the window.

‘I think we can forget about this little protest vote,’ he said. ‘We’ll mark their cards for them soon enough. What we should concentrate on are the main two political campaigns. Labour and Liberal. Don’t you agree, Jenkins?’

Melvin raised a hand. ‘Smashing biscuits,’ he said with a healthy deep purple glow to his cheeks.

‘You can really taste all that butter.’

Larry continued to take charge. ‘Come on, Miss Spoon. Tell us about the people who should really concern us?’

‘Well, I think Jacob probably knows all about the sitting MP,’ Spoon said, suddenly much brighter. ‘Gabriel Kettle is forty two years old, and has been the Lib Dem MP for the last six years after winning her seat in a by-election.’

‘Not happy memories,’ I agreed. ‘The sitting MP died while judging the prize bulls at the local village fete.’

‘Heart attack?’ asked Cyril.

‘Goring,’ I replied. ‘Like I said: they’re not the happiest of memories.’

‘Her campaign will probably focus on the local cottage hospital. There’s been talk of merging it with the general hospital at Smallchurch and Kettle’s been leading the campaign to save it.’

‘You should make a speech about the hospital,’ said Henderson.

‘Should I take the duck along?’ I asked.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, I think it would help, don’t you?’

‘The Labour candidate is one of the party’s rising stars,’ said Spoon, moving to the red folder.

‘I detest it when party’s parachute one of their favourites into a constituency.’ I said.

‘Only thirty two years old...’

‘In nappies,’ Jenkins mumbled.

‘He used to be one of Gordon Brown’s economic advisors, so we can expect him to perform well on anything financial. He’ll probably be very strong on national issues but will lose credibility on local matters.’

‘I’ll ask if he knows how to milk a bull,’ I said. ‘That one usually goes down well with the locals.’

‘How do you milk a bull?’ asked Jenkins. The man still had dairy products on his mind.

‘The Green party are putting up one of their usual bunch. Expect bad cardigans and crazy earrings,’ said Spoon with evident disgust. ‘Her name’s Elizabeth Manning and owns a jewellery shop in the village. She’s only lived down here for five years. Trained to be a nuclear technician before she adopted the Green cause.’

Henderson cleared his throat. ‘Minor inconvenience and easy to answer their criticisms but increasingly likely to take votes from all parties. Let’s move on shall we?’

I slumped further down in my chair.

‘Move on if we must,’ I gasped, ‘but one would do well to consider the enthusiasm of the chap who pays the wages around this table.’

‘The UKIP candidate is one of the usual far right types. Strong on national defence and won’t touch cheese unless he’s seen the passport for cows that produced the milk.’

‘Sounds a sensible sort,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Henry Churchill Fotheringham. He changed his name by deed poll.’

‘A danger if the election is close,’ said Harris. ‘He might take votes from you, so we’ll have to be sure to neutralise his threat.’

‘And the name of the THUMP candidate?’ I asked.

Cyril turned to me. ‘Don’t bother with it, Murgatroid!’

‘But I must know the name of my nemesis.’

‘It will only weaken you.’

‘Then weakened I will have to be. I want to know the name of this political titan who hopes to stride into C---- N---- and wipe the Murgatroid name from the face of the earth.’

Cyril looked down at the tan file and took a deep breath.

‘Her name is Millicent Granger,’ he said. ‘She’s sixty nine year old and works as a school traffic warden.’

‘My nemesis is a lollipop lady?’

Harris stretched himself on his toes and hooked his thumbs into the band of his trousers.

‘Tricky,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Very very tricky.’

‘I told you the truth would weaken you,’ said Cyril.

But I could barely hear as for the fourteenth time in less than a minute I spluttered the words: ‘A lollipop lady!’