bad news. What’s the good news?’
The seaweed wriggled once more, but then subsided.
‘Come on, George, humour me? Or do I book an appointment at the Palace this evening?’
They both knew this game. The Chancellor was a man of little traditional charm but meticulous planning, which made him an excellent player in the guerrilla warfare of Whitehall. He had areputation for never opening negotiations without at least one hand grenade to toss across the table. The Walrus always went armed.
‘My suggestion, for what it’s worth …’ – the Walrus examined his leader with an expression he usually reserved for a plate of bad oysters – ‘is that we lay to rest the Youth Unemployment Programme.’
It was as if he had suggested legalizing incest.
‘Scrap the Yuppie initiative? But that was a core election commitment.’
The Walrus flapped his fins distractedly, as if he were irritated by flies. ‘We could always close a few hospitals, or even cut the old age pension. If you’d prefer.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Bendall responded breathlessly, struggling to keep up. The approaching sea seemed to have become boiling hot. The Walrus smiled. It was not a natural act.
‘Cut Yuppies?’ Bendall continued. He drew in a deep breath. ‘We’d lose the Employment Secretary.’
‘A tragic loss.’
‘But wait a bit.’ Bendall was lengthening his stride. ‘He’s muttering about wanting to go at the next reshuffle anyway. So why not get in there first, bring the changes forward? Better to push him, don’t you think, rather than let him jump?’ Already Bendall’s keen presentational nose was to the fore. It was said he could sell snow to Eskimos but his speciality was selling indulgences to the middle classes, a task he had performed with remarkable success in every region from Hampshire to the Highlands. Up to now.
‘We’d need some justification,’ he continued. ‘Apart from the bloody obvious.’
The Walrus blew his nose on a large red handkerchief, shaking himself as he collected his thoughts. ‘Well, I suppose we start by rounding up the usual suspects. You know, the competition from Eastern Europe. The financial crisis in Latin America. Short-sighted bankers. That sort of thing.’
‘Perhaps we could get Brussels to bail us out.’ Bendall threw the suggestion into the air to see how it might fly. ‘Could we get the Commission to rule the Yuppie programme invalid? You know, notonly save the money but also get a good stand-up row with the French.’
‘It might be arranged.’ The Walrus nodded in appreciation. ‘But we’d still be stuck with a substantial increase in the unemployment figures.’
The Prime Minister brightened, as though television lights had been switched on. ‘No, not necessarily. You see, I’ve long been of the opinion that the unemployment figures are …’ – he paused, like a conductor with baton raised to attract the attention of the orchestra – ‘that the unemployment figures are exceptionally crude. One enormous rubbish pit into which everything is dumped. Young people who’ve never had a proper job. The middle-aged who may never get another job. The unqualified, the infirm, the idle and apathetic.’ He loved toying with phrases. Many of his policies had been built on little more than the appeal of alliteration. Phrases were so flexible. If one didn’t work out, you changed it, found another. Didn’t do much for continuity but made for great sound bites. ‘You know, I feel an overwhelming sense of public responsibility to make sure the unemployment figures are cleaned up. And broken down. Into their constituent parts. They need to be rationalized. Redefined. Redistributed. Add a few categories here, maybe take a few categories there.’
‘Create so much smoke that no one will be able to see through it clearly enough to know what the hell is really happening.’
‘Precisely. Just as we did three years ago.’
Their deliberations were disrupted by a knock
The seaweed wriggled once more, but then subsided.
‘Come on, George, humour me? Or do I book an appointment at the Palace this evening?’
They both knew this game. The Chancellor was a man of little traditional charm but meticulous planning, which made him an excellent player in the guerrilla warfare of Whitehall. He had areputation for never opening negotiations without at least one hand grenade to toss across the table. The Walrus always went armed.
‘My suggestion, for what it’s worth …’ – the Walrus examined his leader with an expression he usually reserved for a plate of bad oysters – ‘is that we lay to rest the Youth Unemployment Programme.’
It was as if he had suggested legalizing incest.
‘Scrap the Yuppie initiative? But that was a core election commitment.’
The Walrus flapped his fins distractedly, as if he were irritated by flies. ‘We could always close a few hospitals, or even cut the old age pension. If you’d prefer.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Bendall responded breathlessly, struggling to keep up. The approaching sea seemed to have become boiling hot. The Walrus smiled. It was not a natural act.
‘Cut Yuppies?’ Bendall continued. He drew in a deep breath. ‘We’d lose the Employment Secretary.’
‘A tragic loss.’
‘But wait a bit.’ Bendall was lengthening his stride. ‘He’s muttering about wanting to go at the next reshuffle anyway. So why not get in there first, bring the changes forward? Better to push him, don’t you think, rather than let him jump?’ Already Bendall’s keen presentational nose was to the fore. It was said he could sell snow to Eskimos but his speciality was selling indulgences to the middle classes, a task he had performed with remarkable success in every region from Hampshire to the Highlands. Up to now.
‘We’d need some justification,’ he continued. ‘Apart from the bloody obvious.’
The Walrus blew his nose on a large red handkerchief, shaking himself as he collected his thoughts. ‘Well, I suppose we start by rounding up the usual suspects. You know, the competition from Eastern Europe. The financial crisis in Latin America. Short-sighted bankers. That sort of thing.’
‘Perhaps we could get Brussels to bail us out.’ Bendall threw the suggestion into the air to see how it might fly. ‘Could we get the Commission to rule the Yuppie programme invalid? You know, notonly save the money but also get a good stand-up row with the French.’
‘It might be arranged.’ The Walrus nodded in appreciation. ‘But we’d still be stuck with a substantial increase in the unemployment figures.’
The Prime Minister brightened, as though television lights had been switched on. ‘No, not necessarily. You see, I’ve long been of the opinion that the unemployment figures are …’ – he paused, like a conductor with baton raised to attract the attention of the orchestra – ‘that the unemployment figures are exceptionally crude. One enormous rubbish pit into which everything is dumped. Young people who’ve never had a proper job. The middle-aged who may never get another job. The unqualified, the infirm, the idle and apathetic.’ He loved toying with phrases. Many of his policies had been built on little more than the appeal of alliteration. Phrases were so flexible. If one didn’t work out, you changed it, found another. Didn’t do much for continuity but made for great sound bites. ‘You know, I feel an overwhelming sense of public responsibility to make sure the unemployment figures are cleaned up. And broken down. Into their constituent parts. They need to be rationalized. Redefined. Redistributed. Add a few categories here, maybe take a few categories there.’
‘Create so much smoke that no one will be able to see through it clearly enough to know what the hell is really happening.’
‘Precisely. Just as we did three years ago.’
Their deliberations were disrupted by a knock
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