Vote Alison MEP
Volume Five
The Spawater Chronicles
Barry Tighe
Published 2011 by Can Write Will Write at Smashwords
http://www.canwritewillwrite.com
Copyright © Barry Tighe 2011
Barry Tighe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
The Spawater Chronicles are a series of tales set in the old Roman City of Spawater.
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Vote Alison MEP
Chapter One
‘How come,’ mused Jenna cradling her lukewarm latte, ‘people dumb enough to pay ten thousand pounds for a handbag are rich enough to afford one?’
‘Why that’s easy,’ Alison replied, twitching her long golden locks at the simplicity of the question. ‘It is only rich people who are dumb enough to want a two thousand pound handbag. The poor would never waste that kind of money even if they had it. But it’s ok,’ she said, beaming happily over her glass of iced water, ‘because there are plenty of rich women about. The Stores, as opposed to the stores, will always have their fill of rich women spending thousands buying Bags.’
‘I said ten thousand.’
‘Oh, there’s a lot more rich women than that. As I say, there are plenty plenty-rich women in the world, and apart from the hippie earth mothers they all like shopping, mainly for shoes and handbags. Only we don’t call them handbags. We prefer Bag. Rich people are aspirational, and aspire to the best of everything. Obviously, a Bag that costs twenty thousand pounds has to be the best and therefore the most desirable.’ She picked up her glass and looked into it doubtfully, frowning at an imaginary stain. ‘Until they launch a dearer one, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Otherwise designers would not have the cheek to charge so much.’
Jenna grinned at her friend Alison, busily wiping her glass with one hand and her fringe with the other, and spilling both. ‘I see. It is all so simple,’ she tittered. ‘So what do these plenty-rich dumb broads do in the recession?’
‘What recession?’
Jenna Wilkinson-Baart and Alison Smedley sparred happily over their coffees in The Lifeboat Club, Spawater’s answer to the court of Tsarevich Nicholas. They were there for the launch of Alison’s political career in the holy new empire of Europe. Alison Smedley, advertising and brand promotions executive par excellence, was taking a sabbatical from the world of branding and related promotional campaigns to stand for the Parliament. Backed by Jason ‘Jady’ Dein, the Rasputin of the Spawater Steppes, Alison intended to enter the exciting world of European parliamentary politics. Subject to voter approval, Alison was going to become an MEP.
‘Champagne? Not you, Jen, naturally; I mean you, Ali. Glass of fizz?’
‘You mean flute of finest, don’t you, Jady?’ interrupted Jenna. ‘When the voters sweep you and Ali to power you will be attending tons of freeloading Euro dinners, so you had better get the terminology right.’
‘True enough, Jen, my teetotal friend; flute it is.’ Jady agreed good-naturedly. He knew that Jenna regarded the European Parliament as the greatest gathering of barbarians since Nero’s distressed fire sale, and was happy to humour her pointed references to EU arrogance, waste and corruption. Strictly off the record, for abuse wins few votes, he agreed with Jenna wholeheartedly.
‘So that’s a flute for Alison, our future MEP, and a fruit for Jenna, our current cynic. Fruit cocktail, that is. Millado?’ Jady turned to his youthful accomplice, Arnie Bennett, who removed one of each from his tray with a swish to impress Jeeves, landing both flute and fruit on Alison and Jenna’s solid oaken table as though born to the bar.
‘Tell me, Jady,’ queried Jenna. ‘Ali informs me there are lots of rich dumb folk buying bags - or Bags as she calls them - and other overpriced designer bull like the recession is something that only happens to the plebs and proles. They sound like they are on your EU gravy train ahead of you. And in first class, as if the EU knew any other.’ She raised her fruit juice distastefully and continued over her shoulder at the patient Jady, who was standing behind her like a waiter at tipping time.
‘You are the common market expert,’ she continued, ‘what moneysaving economies have the Brussels bureaucrats, not forgetting the luxum and related Strasburgers, made so as to share the pain with the people they allegedly represent? Are they knitting their own laws? Recycling their regulations? Do they now accept bent bananas? Surely,’ Jenna tilted her head sideward and poked her forefinger into Jady’s stomach to press home her point, ‘the Eurocrats would not wish to appear out of touch with the people? After all, their very own propaganda sheet claims, and I quote - ’ disengaging from Jady, Jenna lent back across the table, reached for the booklets peeking out from Alison’s bag, and rummaged through them briefly, ‘ - and I quote from page one.
“The European Union is a family of democratic European countries working together to improve life for their citizens and to build a better world.”’
She sniffed scornfully. ‘How balanced. And our taxes pay for this. If you were an honest taxpayer, Jady me old moonlighter, you would be outraged. So tell me, surely your family of Eurocrats feel our pain in this here recession? Every country in Europe except Deutschland owes zillions to the unnamed wicked financial speculators and the UE want us citizens to make sacrifices to cut the deficit. So how are the EU fat cats setting an example? They walking instead of taking limousines? Getting their clothes from charity shops? Taking a ten percent pay cut, are they?’
Shrugging aside Jenna’s insinuation that he evaded his taxes, a common assumption in Lifeboats’, Jady marvelled at how Jenna’s recent trauma had changed her drinking habits but not her character. The trauma was her doctor ordering her to quit alcohol or else. The “or else” was that should she continue to quaff against her doctors’ orders, social workers would take away her liver and donate it to a foster home, or Foster-less home. So Jenna had bought a one-way ticket for the wagon, but sobriety had not had a sobering effect on her. If anything, Jenna was stroppier straight than when juiced up.
Luckily, Jady reflected when he shook himself back on track, he had no need to defend the European Union from Jenna’s barbs. True, he was sponsoring Alison’s candidature in the European Union elections, but not as a pro-European Union candidate. Alison, to the bewilderment of those who knew her, was to stand as the sensible, sane, non-loony anti-EU candidate. It followed that there was no need to argue with EU sceptics. It was Jady’s intention to present Alison to the world - or the Spawater and Southwest UK’s voting constituency part at any rate - as the face of the sensible, non-chauvinistic, acceptable opposition to the Great European Project.
And what a face. When Jady first put forward his idea to Joanna Wilkins, his for-better-or-worse, several months earlier, she immediately asked him why he could not stand as the sensible anti-EU candidate himself.
‘Who would vote for me?’ he replied, displaying a self-awareness Buddha would do well to emulate. ‘What would you say is my standing in Spawater? By which I mean, how well do people know me, and how much do people who know me trust me?’
‘They like you at a safe distance, but they know you all too well and trust you about as much as they trust the town hall,’ Joanna giggled.
‘True enough,’ Jady conceded philosophically, ‘though I don’t fine people for overfilling their bins. Not yet.’ He sighed, ‘I have given this some thought and the brutal truth is that in this town I could not win an election against Pontius Pilate, never mind a Euro vote on an anti-EU ticket. As soon as I became a serious candidate my political opponents would investigate my antecedents…’
‘Investigate your shady-Jady past you mean. If they found out ten percent of the dodgy dealings you have instigated your next election would be as prisoners’ representative on D wing.’
‘...Investigate my antecedents, and reveal perhaps regrettable episodes from my dim and distant which would make it difficult for right-thinking electors to cast their votes for me in sufficient numbers to ensure victory.’
‘You wouldn’t get enough votes to play noughts and crosses.’
‘So I have to take a behind the scenes role…’
‘In the shadows, more like.’ Joanna loved her Jady, but she opposed his cynical take on the European Union. Joanna was a staunch supporter of the European Project in all its manifestations; single market, single currency, constitution, embassies, president and ultimately a United States of Europe. As a Europhile she took a jaundiced view of her beau’s gravy-train machinations, but as Jady’s partner through life she scowled and bore it. Joanna and Jady had long since agreed to differ over matters European, as they agreed to differ over so much else. That, Joanna conceded in her mellower moments, was how their partnership worked.
‘…and leave the glory and the victory to Alison. With her unblemished record, not to mention her unblemished features, Alison is the pleasant and acceptable face of Euro-scepticism.’
‘And you are the unacceptable, Mandelsonian brains behind her campaign.’
Jady winced. ‘Lordy Lordy, that’s a bit raw. I haven’t made a bent mortgage application in my life. Well, not on his scale.’
‘Ok,’ Joanna conceded, ‘I withdraw the last bit.’
‘Nor taken bribes from Russian billionaires, mores the pity.’
‘But I gather,’ pressed Joanna, ‘the idea is that Alison will stand as an anti-EU candidate at the MEP elections and you will run her campaign.’
Jady nodded. ‘Mais naturellement.’
And so, a year before the twice-a-decade elections to the European parliament, Jady and Joanna, along with their friends, Jenna, Hanif Singh, young Arnie Bennett, Farmer and Mrs Tom, Mr Chauncey and a host of other friends, acquaintances, political junkies and Lifeboats’ club members, found themselves toasting the launch of the political career of Alison Smedley, scourge of the European Union fanatics and - Jady hoped - Spawater’s next MEP.
‘More champagne?’
‘May naturally, Ron,’ replied young Arnie, glowing merrily. ‘The chief insists.’
Since becoming Hanif’s assistant at Spawater Computer Solutions and consequently spinning into the orbit of Hanif’s friends at The Lifeboat Club, Lifeboats’ to its inmates, Arnie had participated in many a celebration. Almost all at Jady’s instigation. Alison’s launch into politics was simply another one; launched like the others on a bubbling ocean of Ron’s finest French fizz.
Ron sighed the sigh of a club owner juggling mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was at his happiest when miserable and liked to share his misery around. Moan, thought Ron, and the world moans with you. His patron saint was St Giles de Misère; favourite saying: red sky at night your house is alight; motto: expect the worst and you will never be disappointed. Jady’s flippant and indefatigable optimism cut through his sense of comfortable foreboding like a clown’s dagger.
And during a recession, to boot! Here was Spawater and, for all Ron knew, possibly the rest of the world, in as deep financial doodoos as a masochist could wish for; businesses failing, shares crashing, unemployment and evictions rising, stores sinking and bankers bailed out, a satisfying Icelandic fug of doom and gloom from dawn to dusk, yet here was Jady calling for champagne. And he, Ron, the owner and captain of Lifeboats’, had to carry and fetch like a cabin boy. Isn’t it bloody typical, thought Ron morosely, as he hitched his suffering back up a notch and headed down the cellar steps. The world is in the biggest slump since Buddy spared a dime, and here is Jady Antoinette Dein shouting “let them drink champagne”.
On the other, less worn hand, Jady was his best customer by a country mile. Or these days, a country kilometre. Since Jenna had swapped her after-work Lifeboats’ bevies for the local juice bar, taking her ladies-who-lunch with her, Ron’s till receipts had gone deeper south than a Dixieland house builder’s balance sheet. Luckily Jady and his champagne-fuelled celebrations were, it seemed, recession proof. When banking the takings, Ron was forced to concede that although the heart said “no” to the sight, sound and smell of celebrations, the wallet said “do you want canapés with those?” As for the reason behind the latest festivities, Alison, sweet kid that she was, had less chance of winning a Euro election than winning the jackpot in a Euro lottery.
Consoling himself that Jady’s champagne would be quaffed in vain, Ron cheered up and descended into the cellar with heavy footfalls but a light heart.
‘The thing I can’t understand,’ puzzled Arnie to his boss Hanif, ‘is why the chief chose Alison to fight this European election, whatever it is. I mean, why didn’t he just stand himself?’
‘Well Arnie,’ smiled Hanif in quiet reply, ‘Jady prefers to do his work behind the scenes. Not because he’s shy, but because if he stood for public office people might not believe he really wished to serve the greater good. They might grab hold of the wrong end of the stick and think he was trying to climb aboard what eurosceptics call the European Union gravy train.’ Or more probably, thought Hanif, suppressing a smirk, they might well grab hold of the right end of the stick and stir thick, juicy gravy. Hanif, like Jady’s partner Joanna, supported the European Union, but knew nevertheless that if there was any gravy to ladle out to the backer of a newly elected Euro MEP, Jady would insert his metric spoon in to the hilt.
‘But why Alison?’ persisted Arnie. ‘I know the chief could never stand for election himself, as not everyone trusts him.’ Arnie looked up to Jady as the father he never knew but realised the truth behind Hanif’s soft words. He had seen Jady in action and noticed how others ducked for cover whenever he approached them with a smiling sure thing.
This still left him baffled about Jady’s surrogate candidate. Alison had many qualities, not least the power to reduce his boss Hanif to something resembling a jellyfish on a rollercoaster by a flutter of a blonde eyelash, but Alison was hardly what he would regard as a political animal. More of a party one, and a fashion house party at that.
‘But why, of all the people who would love to stand to be an MP or whatever, why in the name of Zeus did he pick on Alison?’
Alison combined the childlike wide-eyed wonder of a child espying her first talking rabbit with the natural zest of Zeus alighting on Swan Lake. All pep and mustard with a twinkle thrown in for luck. Alison saw dealing with talking rabbits and amorous gods as all in a day’s work. To this otherworldliness she added an industrial strength sense of right and wrong, compassion for the underdog, disconcerting honesty and an allergic aversion to anything that wasn’t fair. Decency, generosity and wholesomeness shone out from her clear blue eyes like tinselglow from the searchlights on Santa’s sleigh. She mesmerised all caught in her beams. But only, of course, on those occasions when her glorious golden locks had not fallen over her eyes as they frequently did. Her voice soft with excitable peaks and warm troughs, her milky-fair complexion, deep blue eyes and general outer shell gave onlookers the visage of Marylyn Munroe after a good long soak.
These qualities made Alison a rising star in the world of brand awareness and promotion. No one could be beastly to such innocent beauty. Alison was perfectly suited to an ethereal industry where image was everything and substance was something her clients - but never Alison, heaven forefend - put up their noses. Alison had brandbuilding blood swelling through her noble blue and crimson arteries and promotional DNA in her designer genes. Her earliest ancestors, carving cave makeovers outside ancient Rome, promoted the first wall murals. “Daub a few dinosaurs on the wall, Uggy babes,” extolled the Alisons of the Palaeolithic, Neolithic and Flintstonian eras, “and the cave price will, erm… what’s the word for skyrocket?”
Alison had no interest in politics and had never bothered to vote in any election or contest outside of reality television. In vain did best friend and political junkie Joanna protest that it is everyone’s duty to take an interest in the governance of the country and indeed the governance of Europe. The least Alison could do, Joanna protested, was to make the teeniest effort to support the democratic process by putting an X on a piece of paper. When derided for her apathy and urged by her other best friend Jenna to at least drag her golden carcass to the polling station and spoil her vote as she, Jenna, did, Alison would shrug and say that she could never tell one candidate from another and they were all in it for themselves surely, so what difference did it make to vote? It only encouraged them.
This conversation had taken place in Lifeboats’ one fine summer evening during the previous year. Jady had been sitting alongside Joanna as she, Jenna and Alison batted the pros and cons of voting in elections to and fro across the mahogany table near the rear of the club, where Jady and friends tended to roost. Normally not backward when coming forward, Jady eavesdropped with growing interest as Alison protested that voting was futile as the winners always got in, and besides, didn’t someone say that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely? She did not wish to have corrupting people absolutely on her conscience. They could keep their elections and let ordinary people get on with their lives. She wasn’t interested.
Jady was. As he beheld the good-natured argument around him and listened to Alison’s simple conviction that politicians were a waste of space, all the same and only in it for whatever expenses they could fiddle, his brain lit up like an incandescent light bulb. It did not matter a lion’s whisker which of them got in, Alison added, twitching her nose for emphasis. At that moment Jady discovered his Euro candidate.
For some time, Jady had been convinced that the European Union as it stood in the early part of the century was fatally flawed. It could not, in Jady’s view, survive the king-sized recession the world now faced. The conflicting needs of its component countries would pull the European Union apart like a Christian tied to twenty-seven chariots all driving full pelt in different directions. This, Jady believed, was no bad thing. The whole European project, conceived in the years following the Great War, was in Jady’s not-so-humble opinion, a misconceived top-down antidemocratic conspiracy against the masses by a small multinational bunch of pompous snobs who thought they could turn Europe step-by-step into a single country without anyone noticing. The sooner it dissolved, believed Jady, flushed through its own lying hypocritical fundament, the better. There were sound arguments for European and indeed world unity on a case-by-case basis, Jady conceded magnanimously. Cross-border co-operation on pollution, space exploration and disaster relief for example, met with Jady’s approval. Cross border extradition of harmless criminals did not. As far as Jady was concerned, if you made it across the border with your ill-gotten gains, you were home and dry. Dragging fraudsters back when they beat the system fair and square by their own wits was not playing the game. More pertinently, a Europe ruled undemocratically from the centre was a Europe that would meet with the approval of Caesar, Hitler, Stalin, Pol pot and Ming the Merciless. This was a Europe that had to fail.
All very well so far as it went, and Jady was convinced the European Union would fail sooner rather than later, when the recession turned to depression and Germany could no longer bankroll the losers. This begged the question; what’s in it for me? After a good whisky and soda brain-wracking, Jady believed he had the answer. He would stand behind someone standing to be a Member of the European Parliament. If he couldn’t turn being the brains behind an MEP to his financial and social advantage, he was not the man he thought he was. All he needed was a suitable candidate to stand behind. Someone with all the qualities he lacked. Someone honest, believable, sincere, disinterested and clearly not out for themselves. And as so often turns out to be the case in these matters, here she was, in his club Lifeboats’, and practically under his nose.
With Jady behind her all the way to Brussels, Alison Smedley was going to be South East England’s next Member of the European Parliament.
Alison MEP.
Vote Alison MEP
Chapter Two
Quitting alcohol is not as simple as it’s cracked up to be. So thought Jenna when she first faced the choice of junking the booze or junking her life. Many times she cursed the doctor who had presented her with such a choice. If only he had kept his interfering stethoscope and general quackery to himself, she could have continued knocking back the bottle in happy ignorance while her liver slowly and peacefully dissolved. Still, she mused in calmer moments, there it was. Quit drinking or die. When asked by the ladies-who-lunch clients at her dance and aerobics school how if felt to be obliged to quit the demon drink, Jenna donned her customary brave face and informed them that it was no big deal. Where there’s a willpower there’s a way, she retorted, while seething inside at the facetiousness of the question. Jenna was a dance and aerobics instructor of the no-pain-no-gain school and took out her anger by aerobicing and dancing her nosy parker clients to within an inch of their pampered lives. It was some consolation for no longer being able to unwind with a stiff one.
Behind the scenes however, Jenna found that changing the drinking habits of a lifetime - well, from aged twelve in the orphanage onwards - took more than a dollop of willpower. It took a complete revaluation of her life; just the thing to drive an unpretentious soul such as hers straight to the bottle. Her dishevelled guardian angel was now a regular ambrosia imbiber with nectar chasers, propping up the heavenly dives. Jenna knew how she felt.
To her acute embarrassment, Jenna found herself padding the dingy path to Losers’ Corner, the catchall ghetto where Spawater Council shunted off its social problems, to attend her first meeting of Alcoholics Antidotes. She had been here before, riding shotgun for her friend Joanna when she was seeking do-gooders’ work as a losers’ helper a while back. How Jenna had sneered at the drug-addled wasters flopped about the street and alleyways, high on chemicals, low on life. It wasn’t so funny when it was her turn.
Losers’ Corner housed drug addicts, gamblers, winos and the general jetsam of modern living. As an old roman town, home to the world famous Spawater Baths, Spawater did not want such losers out on the streets harassing tourists and lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. Better by far to dump the lot in one out-of-the-way hole, stump up a few grants to keep the social services at bay and forget about them. Out of their sight, out of their minds, was the attitude of Spawater council and for once, Jenna found herself in agreement with them. When associating with a group of people obliged to admit that they could no longer face life with alcohol, and at the same time could no longer face life without alcohol, she preferred to do so discreetly.
Jenna mumbled her way past a receptionist or two, and presently found herself in a cavernous hired hall room with a number of others whom she took to be regular clients of the quitting alcohol organisation. When they were sitting comfortably in a circle, someone with a clipboard whom Jenna took to be the organiser, walked into the middle and declared the meeting open.
‘How did it go?’
Three hours later, though it seemed like ten, Jenna fetched up at Balbir’s Bistro for her regular Indian supper with best friends Joanna and Alison. True friends, as opposed to drinking buddies, they were concerned for Jenna’s welfare and awaited her arrival with trepidation. Jenna and sobriety did not gel; she seemed as likely a candidate for Alcoholics Antidotes as Oliver Reed. Jenna did not, Joanna knew, suffer fools or superciliousness at the best of times, which this most certainly wasn’t. Nor did she do things - or drinks - by halves. Jenna would either quit entirely or drink the town dry. Joanna was well aware that one word out of place at the AA meeting and Jenna would be out of there and heading for the nearest pub before you could say twelve steps.
‘Hi guys,’ announced Jenna breezily, returning Alison’s hug. ‘It was rather interesting, better than I expected.’ She displayed just the slightest flush. Alison gently released Jenna and she shrugged her coat off her shoulders in her usual casual manner and flopped her bag onto the restaurant table.
‘I could murder an orange juice.’
While Alison fussed happily, Joanna ordered orange juice for Jenna and a bottle of wine for Alison and herself. Jenna’s golden rule was that no one should stay sober on her behalf; it was one thing to climb on to the wagon at doctors’ pistol point, quite another to whiplash innocent bystanders. Joanna would not offend Jenna by avoiding alcohol in her presence.
‘So do tell,’ enthused Alison when order was restored. ‘What’s it like at Alcoholics Avengers?’
‘Antidotes.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Joanna. ‘How did it go?’
‘Oh, not too bad. Just a friendly chat, that’s all there is to it really.’
‘Oh go on,’ pleaded Alison. ‘Tell us what happened.’
Jenna considered her friends’ request. Normally they had no secrets, but she found herself oddly unwilling to recount details of the meeting and in particular, her contribution to it. Alcoholics Antidotes did not encourage its members to discuss their meetings with outsiders and much to her surprise, Jenna found herself in agreement. Just as drunks are united against the world, so are recovering alcoholics. What went on behind the closed doors assumed the quiet, unhurried air of the confessional. Not to be revealed to outsiders.
She cast her mind back over the AA meeting. They had made her welcome - not too much fuss, thank Bacchus, just a friendly hello all round - and put her at her ease over tea and biscuits. Some of the regulars began giving the group an account of their doings since last they met, all with a certain amount of pride at their continued sobriety in the face of pressure from society in general and the advertising world in particular. Jenna found herself on familiar ground. She had never really noticed just how big a part alcohol plays in everyday life until she tried coping without it. Television especially seemed full to overflowing with references to drinking. Not a fictional character arrived home after a long day without the accompanying sloosh of the soda siphon, p’fizz of the can or pop of the cork. Jenna soon overcame her embarrassment at finding herself in Losers’ Corner on the wrong side of the counter, and relaxed. Under no pressure to contribute anything, she took time to observe her fellow attendees.
‘The people there are a mixed group,’ she replied in due course. ‘Most of them seem quite successful in their careers. Or rather, most of them used to be successful in their careers until the booze got them. Now that they are off the booze they are slowly climbing back up the ladder to public respectability and more importantly, self respect. Actually, they are already well back up their individual ladders but are scared one slip and they will fall back down again. That’s why they keep attending the AA meetings, one drink away from disaster and that sort of thing.’ Jenna shuffled uncomfortably; this was more than she had meant to say.
‘They all seemed quite upbeat. We sat around and chatted about how alcohol brought them down, but how now together they are stronger than alcohol, possibly backed by divine assistance though they seemed a bit cagey about that.’ She smiled wanly at her friends. ‘And that’s about it.’
Joanna took the hint. Jenna was only prepared to give a superficial account of her AA meeting. This was fine; the main question was whether or not Jenna was going to stay off the sauce. On that thought she accepted the uncorked wine bottle from Balbir the boss and poured Alison a glassful mixed with soda.
‘So you will keep on attending the AA meetings?’
‘Ah... I suppose so.’ Jenna played it down but she had already decided that she needed AA right now, possibly for the long term. ‘For the time being, anyway.’
‘Until you’re cured,’ agreed Alison eagerly, waving her glass for emphasis. ‘There is no point in going after that, unless it is fun. Is it fun?’
‘Fun?’
Jenna grinned at her friends, grateful and relieved that neither was letting her enforced sobriety alter their relationship. It confirmed her private opinion, expressed at the AA meeting, that there are friends and there are drinking buddies. When you are drinking it is hard to tell the difference. Only when you clamber aboard the wagon does it become blindingly obvious. If you want to find out who your friends are, Jenna now realised, just stop drinking and see what happens.
Pausing to accept the orange juice, which she noted arrived after the wine and with considerably less ceremony, Jenna continued.
‘I would not really call it fun, unless your idea of fun is to talk about how alcohol nearly destroyed you but you are much better now, thanks. Though to be fair, there were a few laughs too.’
‘What kind of laughs?’ enquired Alison earnestly.
‘Never mind what kind of laughs,’ tittered Jenna, happily pouring out her juice. ‘I’ve told you all about the AA, now you can tell me all about your Jady’s fiendish masterplan to put you, Ali, in Strasburg or Brussels or wherever it is as a Euro MEP.’ She sipped her juice and added as an afterthought. ‘Which is it, by the way?’
‘Which is what?’
‘Strasburg or Brussels? Where do Euro MEPs sit?’
Alison looked baffled.
‘I don’t know. One or the other I suppose. Or both. Does it matter?’
‘It does when you want to collect your massive expenses. I’m surprised Jady hasn’t told you.’
‘Both,’ interjected Joanna. ‘The parliament is in Strasburg but most of the Euro organisations are in Brussels, though the admin body is in Luxemburg. The MEPs spend three weeks in Brussels on committees and suchlike and every fourth week they all go to Strasburg to vote and debate the current issues. Except when the Euro parliament is closed, of course. And sometimes,’ Joanna added as an afterthought, ‘they hold the parliament in Brussels.’
‘That’s nice and clear then. The European Sir Humphries must be very happy.’ Jenna relaxed; things were back to normal. ‘So where does our Ali pick up her overblown expenses?’
‘They are not overblown, Jen. Being an MEP is a full time occupation and involves various expenses which must be met.’ Joanna threw in an argument to appeal to Jenna’s meritocratic ethos. ‘Otherwise the only people who could become MEPs would be people who were independently rich, and that’s hardly democratic is it?’
‘Whereas under the present system, political junkies, greasy-pole climbers and has-beens become MEPs in order to get dependently rich, dependent on us the Euro taxpayers, do they not?’
Joanna hated arguing with Jenna. They never seemed to get anywhere. Besides, though a supporter of the European Project, she knew the Community had many faults, the lack of transparency when it came to money being a glaring example. Joanna was a supporter of the European Union, but she was not starry eyed.
‘Let’s ask Alison. After all, if Jady gets his way she will be our next MEP. What do you think, Ali?’
Alison explained that she was meeting Jady to go over the finer points such as will Greece default on her debts and what about the rest of the pigs, whatever that meant, but Jady had already told her that the European Union was a silly idea and would not survive due to its contempt for the common people who would one day rise up and bite off its bottom, and Jady generally knew what he was talking about.
While Joanna struggled over which part of Alison’s answer to dispute first, Jenna cast her mind back to the AA meeting. Towards the latter stages she was asked in an easy manner if she wished to add anything to the conversation. On her usual principle of in for a penny in for a pound, or even a Euro, she let them have it.
‘Since the quack ordered me to either quit drinking or quit living, I have given the booze a lot of thought. And the more I thought, the more I realised how much drink controlled my life.’ Approving clucks.
‘It was all right at first, before I began getting hangovers. Once they started it all went downhill. I would wake up wishing I hadn’t, stumble to breakfast anywhere, anyhow, with anyone, and eat anything - or nothing. I never knew the difference between real friends and drinking buddies. This is because half the people I thought were friends were just poor souls like me, addicted to booze and clinging to others like castaways in the same leaky boat. One ripple and you flounder. Now as I am sure you know, addicts of a feather stick together. Heroin addicts stick to other heroin addicts; crack addicts to crack addicts and so on. Why not booze hounds? Of course they do. Your drinking mates are not friends; they are fellow addicts, clinging to other drinkers so their own addiction doesn’t seem so bad.’
The room listened in silence.
‘I soon found that the best way to cure a hangover is to do it all again. Parties, drinking and dancing are the cure for parties, drinking and dancing. And when it gets too much? Shopping. Buy clothes, and then party, drink and dance some more.
‘This is expensive; not just in the purse but on the body. My work suffered, I could not teach aerobics and dance, of all things, to the best of my ability when I was poisoning myself every night. I felt exhausted all day, until the evening when I hit the bottle yet again. If I owned a dog it would be bald, I’d have had so many hairs of it.’
The room stifled a groan. They had heard this one before.
‘I started scheduling my dance classes for the afternoon. Why? I kidded myself it was so my clients could avoid the rush hour. Winos kid themselves a lot. Really it was because I had trouble getting up in the mornings. Not just because of the lack of sleep or the poison still lapping around my bloodstream, but tiredness of the spirit. What’s the point, I thought, of another day’s struggle? Then the thought that after the day’s work I could restore my tissues with a drink or three with my friends - my so-called friends, actually drinking buddies from my dance and aerobic classes - got me up and through the day.
‘Zeus bless makeup! I could hide the ravages of yesterday’s booze with the right blusher. As least at first. But no amount of makeup can restore natural health to the face or figure. Not when you are poisoning yourself every night. I lost business. Who wants aerobic lessons from a hung-over wreck? Booze became very expensive indeed.
‘But then one of my well-off clients would invite me to yet another party. “This is my personal aerobics trainer,” they would say, introducing me and showing off to the rival wives and girlfriends. “Isn’t she the greatest?” they would brag, like I was a trophy. And I would fill up on free champagne and canapés and say little and bank the cheques.
‘Glamour? Hah! Their idea of glamour consisted of airhead conversations about which celebrity has the most pictures in this month’s vacuous glossy magazines. Who is hot and who is not. Pointless nonsense from pointless people. And I was in the middle, drinking my brains down to their level. I would talk for an hour to an airhead and forget it all the next day. This is what booze does.’ Jenna reflected for a moment.
‘I still can’t figure out how come so many airheads are so rich.’ She returned to her speechifying. Her thoughts on alcohol had matured like a fine wine and were now ready for consumption. She was saying nothing the room had not heard before. They had all journeyed along different, individual paths and alleys on the way, but their destination was the same.
‘Then I got the wakeup call from the quack. I was devastated at first, and immediately went out and got legless, but now I realise it was the best thing that ever happened to me. It forced me to quit before I fell entirely into the gutter. My old drinking so-called pals are still out there, drinking themselves into a stupid early grave, melting their minds and waking up so miserable along the way they have to do it again just to make life worthwhile.’ She straightened up. ‘Not me though. I am cured. I have seen through it and nowadays I bounce out of bed ready to take the day by the throat and shake it till it gives me what I want. And it does, each and every day. I am bursting with energy and bright ideas. Sometimes I kick my blankets in the air at my luck.’
While pouring out her thoughts Jenna wondered if she was being truthful. Was she really cured of alcohol addiction? In that case, why did she fancy a drink? Perhaps she was kidding herself about the joys of sobriety just as she had previously kidded herself about the joys of alcohol. Time would tell, but one thing was certain. She needed the strength of the AA fellowship to reinforce her views. Jenna was not going face the sober world on her own.
‘What do you think, Jen?’
‘Eh?’
Joanna repeated the question. ‘Do you think the European Union will survive the recession?’
With relief, Jenna tore herself away from her AA recollections and addressed the present.
‘I don’t know. Not judging by Greece and Spain, it won’t. Nor by the rest of Alison’s pigs, Portugal, Italy, Ireland and Spain. What does your Jady think? He’s the expert.’
‘Jady thinks it will collapse along with the Euro currency, or at least change beyond recognition. He thinks that all the national governments of the member countries will each pull their own way to keep in with their electors and the Union will be too stretched to accommodate the different priorities.’
‘Italy wants low interest rates, Germany wants high; that sort of thing?’
‘Yes. That’s why Jady wants Ali to become an MEP; so she can be in at the death - and maybe hurry it along.’
‘Actually,’ piped up Alison, ‘Jady told me when the recession deepens and debts and bankruptcies explode exponentially the Euro countries will leap overboard like rats deserting the sinking Euro ship. He says that Greece will be the first to quit the Euro, followed by Spain then Ireland, and the last country out will turn off the dim, energy saving, mercury-poisoned light bulbs.’
‘I know,’ tutted Joanna, ‘though I disagree. There is safety in numbers. Together the European Union will weather the recession. Outside the security of the Union the countries would not survive too well on their own.’
‘Safety in numbers eh?’ Jenna looked thoughtful. ‘So Jo, Jady believes countries will go their own way and look for their individual salvation, whereas you think they should stick together for mutual support?’
‘That’s about it. What about you, Jen? What do you think?’
‘I think I am hungry. I’m stuffed with food for thought, now I need the real thing. Let’s order.’
Vote Alison MEP
Chapter Three
‘The European Union in its current form will not survive the recession. Neither will the Euro. And thank Zeus; it is conspiracy against the people and the sooner we are rid of it the better.’
‘Biscuit?
‘Ta.’
Joanna and Jady were relaxing in Chez Guevara, their comfortable and spacious detached home on a tree-lined avenue circling the outskirts of Spawater. Once split into two large flats, Jady had obtained enough money to purchase both halves and restore it to its proper state. His wallet was helped in this matter by Spawater’s falling villa prices, caused by the recession.
Jady accepted the proffered biscuit tin from a sceptical Joanna. His hand hovered briefly over the chocolate selection before diving in.
‘You are wrong about the European Union not surviving the recession,’ Joanna countered. ‘There is strength in numbers and the countries of Europe will battle through hard times better together than they would struggling on their own. And the Euro, Greece and Spain notwithstanding, will become stronger as more countries shelter under its protective shield.’
‘Like Iceland? Such strength.’ Jady harrumphed and sent his larynx into spasm. He straightened up hastily, coughing and spluttering chocolate biscuit crumbs into his cupped hand. Joanna responded jovially to this abrupt change of subject.
‘You shouldn’t harrumph while you are eating chocolate biscuits.’ She chortled as Jady washed away the debris with tea. ‘Now you have undigested digestives on your shirt. It is what Alison would describe as “never a good look.” Not if you want to play the great statesman.’ Impressed by her own eloquence, Joanna pressed home her political point. ‘When Churchill gave his blood, toil, sweat and tears speech, I’ll wager he didn’t have chocci bicci crumbs all down his front.’
‘...all right.’
‘Whiskey stains, maybe.’
‘...Point taken.’
‘Or more likely cigar ash.’
Jady sighed and brushed away the remaining debris with ill grace. Dignity eventually restored, he made his reply.
‘The Euro will collapse because national politicians will introduce import controls and similar protectionist policies to keep their domestic electors happy.’ He grinned as he came up with a good one. ‘Protectionism is the crack cocaine of economics, just as nationalism is the crack cocaine of politics. It delivers immediate euphoria, followed by paranoia, recession and destitution.’
Joanna groaned as Jady continued his lecture.
‘The piper payers, Germany mainly plus France and the Netherlands, Austria and Britain, will baulk at subsidising the tune callers and will set high interest rates. The pigs, Portugal, Italy and Ireland, Greece, Spain and others will set low interest rates, and when the strain grows strong enough we will hear a loud snap.’ Jady cracked a biscuit for emphasis. ‘Then, when the dust finally settles, there will be bits of broken Euro all over the place. Another fine mess.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Or rubbish, if you prefer. Each government will blame the others for the collapse. Greece has already blamed their mess on the Germans for stealing their gold and wrecking their industry during world war two. The Germans have raised their eyes to the skies and said it’s about time Europe got over the soddin’ war. If they keep banging on about it, say the Germans, maybe we’ll try third time lucky.’ He sniggered. ‘So much for European solidarity. There will be plenty of shouting, then one country will suspend its membership of the EU - just temporarily, it will announce - until this pesky recession is over. Within a week, half the remaining countries will do the same. Then,’ he dunked his half-biscuit in his tea, ‘all bets are off.’
Joanna gazed around their airy, high ceilinged and over-furnished living room. It reflected Jady’s personality and Joanna had long ago given up threatening to exile its contents to the charity shop. Along with the cellar - Jady HQ - she accepted the living room as his domain. The remainder of the Chez Guevara roost was under her rule. The system worked.
The east wall was adorned with books, decked out like a pre-internet library; solid shelves of hardbacks from bending down to tippy toes, broken only by the imposing cellar door. To the west, past a door or two, an eighteenth century sideboard lurked behind a Georgian wooden lamp stand, and a grandfather clock stood at attention next to a panelled wooden door leading to the hall. This door was guarded by the huge, faux Ming vase employed to house visiting umbrellas. South past the upright piano, a large real fireplace cast its warmth over the family sized sofa where they now lounged, escorted by comfy armchairs like destroyers around a battleship, with the tea table facing front. North boasted an Edwardian chest of drawers to the side of the bay windows. Lesser items, often discovered by shins in the dark, speckled the Axminster at random. Dominating the centre was a boardroom sized Chippendale table bestrewn with papers, books, ornaments and general flotsam.
The room was eclectic, but hardly the stuff of revolution. More the study of a retired colonial governor from the days of Empire. All it needed was a pink globe.
The atmosphere as ever was peaceful, calm as church. Once again Joanna marvelled at how such a quintessential Englishman as Jady could discuss rationally and calmly events to stagger the world, matters possibly of war, starvation and chaos, over tea and chocolate biscuits. Of course, along with most of the citizens of Spawater, Jady was also a descendent of the lion-clad Roman Empire, and this, she reasoned, might have something to do with it.
‘That’s what you are going to tell Alison is it?’
Jady stretched for the biscuit tin.
‘That we are on the verge of the EU imploding? Of course.’ He grinned. ‘Not in so many words, perhaps…’
Joanna snatched the tin back, scraping Jady’s knuckles on the metal ridge.
‘If you are going to elect Alison to the European Parliament under false pretences, you can at least save her the chocci biscuits.’
Jady was waiting for Alison to arrive. He was soon to launch his campaign to elect her as the sane, anti-EU MEP for Spawater and the UK western region, so she needed to know what the Project - otherwise known as the European Union - was all about. And what was wrong with it.
When Jady had first thought of the possibility of engineering an election, he asked around to find out what people thought about elections in general and the European Union in particular. He found the expected mixture of those for it, those against, and the great apathetic majority who did not particularly approve but didn’t really care and assumed it a fait accompli. What Jady found vastly more interesting was that not one person in a hundred could talk authoritatively on the subject. He mentioned this to Joanna yet again.
‘How many people, for example,’ he enquired, ‘know the difference between the Council of Europe, the Council of the European Union and the European Council?’
‘Go on then...’
‘The Council of Europe is not part of the EU and is to thank, and I use the word loosely, for the European Court of Human Rights. The Council of the European Union is made up of the national ministers and is the number one decision maker in the EU, much more important than the parliament. The European Council consists of the 27 heads of state plus the European president, Monsieur Rumpypumpy, and is currently vying with the Council of the European Union for supremacy. Clear? Good. Now, who can name the five principle EU institutions?’
‘I’ll bet you can.’
‘The Commission, the Council of Ministers, the Parliament, the Court of Justice and the Court of Auditors,’ Jady rapped smartly.
‘No kidding?’ Joanna didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Jady waved his chocolate half-biscuit at her in triumph.
‘And the Committee of the Regions?’
‘Never met it.’
‘You see? You are a supporter of the Project yet even you are bored by the setup. And you are one of the miniscule number who take a real interest in matters European. You probably know more about European integration and all that than the average Joe or Jane in the street, but it still sends you to sleep. Think how non-political folk react’ He dunked his half-biscuit in his tea. ‘This confusion is a deliberate ploy by the founders of the Project; they always meant to create a united states of Europe but they knew the proud Europeans would never wear it, so they decided from the start to bore people to tears so they would not notice the slow erosion of the sovereign rights of the European nations.’
Joanna sighed. ‘Save it for Alison.’
On cue, the doorbell rang. It chimed a dippy, full-of-life tone.
‘That’ll be her now. Off you go.’
Massaging his knuckles, Jady rose confidently and sauntered westward ho to the outer hall.
‘Skipping lightly over us Romans, Alexander the Great and assorted maniacs, the modern idea of united Europe began during the Great War of 1914-1918. During the slaughter, divers politicians and civil servants thought it would be a good idea if Germany and France stopped beating the bejabbers out of each other every twenty years. The way the politicos and bureaucrats thought they could do this was by uniting Europe’s main heavy industries - coal and steel - into one huge concern so that they could never again conscript their own industries for war. European industry would be so mixed up that war would be impossible, at least with each other.’ He poured himself a Darjeeling from the posh teapot. Monkey tea for pleasure, believed Jady, Darjeeling for business. ‘They would be too busy doing business deals together to drops bombs on each other. Besides, if they bombed each other’s coal and steelworks, they would be bombing their own shared property. That was the theory.’
Alison smiled winningly. ‘Fair trade not air raid. Yes, I can see how that would work.’
Joanna grimaced. ‘I can see why you are so successful in brand building. You have a slogan for everything.’
‘Never underestimate the power of a catchy catchphrase. Go on, Jady.’
Following the initial how-are-you-doings, Alison settled comfortably into one of the luxurious armchairs accompanying Jady and Joanna’s sofa in front of the fireplace. Despite her sylphlike figure - Alison was a direct descendent of Zeus and Leda, one of the prettier whooper swans of Sparta - Alison could dunk chocolate biscuits with the best of them. Suitably armed, she absorbed Jady’s history and economics lecture while displaying the wide-eyed awe she gave all her clients when listening to them eulogising their latest brands.
‘Possibly because brand promotion specialists hadn’t really caught on in early twentieth century Europe,’ a refreshed Jady continued, ‘the idea was not an immediate success. Twenty years later Germany and France were at it again, with hammers and tongs produced by their own separate coal and steel industries, again roping the rest of Europe and elsewhere into their squabbles. Adolf Hitler did his best to unite Europe but not in a way that Spinelli, a part-time Italian communist jailbird, and his one-Europe-one-nation pals in Germany and France, really liked.’
‘That’s a good slogan,’ interrupted Alison.
‘What’s a good slogan?’
‘One Europe, one Nation.’
Joanna cackled aloud, alarming the teacups, while Jady stewed gently.
‘Blinding. But it is on the wrong side. We prefer one-person-one-vote. Or one nation one world.’
‘We do?’
‘Yes, but we can go into that later. Now back to what the European Union is really all about.’
‘Oh yes. Do go on.’ Alison brushed aside her fringe and gave Jady her eager attention while Joanna marvelled at the thought of her soul mate and her best friend - along with Jenna - on the campaign trail. Peaceful surroundings notwithstanding, life was never dull in Chez Guevara.
‘The last thing the French wanted, especially the farmers,’ continued Jady, ‘was the Germans in charge. So when they got World War Two out of the way, the European dreamers finally fired up their precious Coal and Steel Pact whereby, as previously stated, various European countries would merge their heavy industries, tangle them up in red-tape and bureaucracy and make war impossible. But the Coal and Steel Pact was the one-Europe-one-country gang’s Trojan horse. Once they got their hoof in the door by setting up a pan-European industrial complex, they could set about their real aim: bringing political unity to the whole of western and possibly Eastern Europe.
‘But they could not say this openly. They could not publicly announce that the purpose of the Coal and Steel Pact was to begin a process that would end with a united states of Europe.’ He nodded good-humouredly at Alison. ‘Or One Europe One Nation, as you might say. They did try a couple of times, but found that the people wouldn’t wear it. The people were stubbornly attached to their own countries, or even their own part of their own countries. If anything, people wanted more independence from central governments, like the Scots and Welsh nationalists and Basque separatists, rather than a European federal super state. So, for the people’s own good, decided Spinelli and his pals, they had to be hornswaggled into a united states of Europe. The only way they could achieve this was by uniting Europe a slice at a time.
‘As I said, this included Eastern Europe. They wanted to include countries from what was then the Soviet Union; that state capitalist monstrosity masquerading as a communist people’s paradise. It didn’t seem to cross their minds that the only way they could get the Soviet Union countries on board was if the Soviet Union imploded.’ Jady took a sip of tea. ‘But if a ruthless outfit like the Soviet Union could not unite a bunch of eastern European countries for any length of time, what chance has an effete, western European Union? ...A liberal hotchpotch with its airy-fairy human rights and freedom of expression?’ Jady shook his head sadly. Alison looked concerned. Joanna poured more tea for herself.
‘No, the only way Europe will stay united for more than two economic recessions is by the most brutal trampling of its population, the way Stalin kept Russia together when Hitler was at the gates of Stalingrad. Constant spying on the people, Stasi style, 1984 databases in glorious high-definition three dimensional technicolor, that’s the way to unite Europe and keep it united. That’s the only way.’
‘So you are saying that Spinny and his friends were as bad as Stalin and Hitler?’
‘No Ali. Not at all. Spinelli and his friends wished to unite Europe for the best of reasons. Their intentions were good. They saw its people suffering through wars and through lack of simple economic cooperation. They imagined a European nirvana, where people could live or work anywhere they chose within its boundaries; where economic and cultural integration made war not just impossible, but unthinkable. Their hearts were in the right place, just as today’s supporters of the Project have their hearts in the right place.’
Joanna grinned cynically. ‘But not their brains, eh? How wonderfully condescending you can be, my love.’
‘Funny you should mention condescending,’ continued an unabashed Jady, ‘because that is a pretty good word for Spinelli and his pals. They saw that peace in Europe was best achieved by uniting Europe into one country along the lines of the USA. The United States of Europe. After all,’ Jady returned Joanna’s grin with interest, ‘it stopped the Americans fighting each other. Well, most of the time. The south will rise again. We must visit the Confederate States of America soon and find out when the next rising will begin.’
‘Never mind the Confederate States of America. It’s the United States of Europe that interests me. Now get on with it. What is patronising about wanting to unite Europe?’
‘The patronising bit is that Spinny and his pals thought they were the only people who saw that unity was necessary for peace and prosperity, and that the people of Europe were too dumb to see it for themselves. As I say, they made a few attempts to persuade the people to pool their countries into a European state, but each time they tried openly and honestly, the people of Europe told them to stuff their United States of Europe where the olives don’t grow.’ Jady sipped his tea significantly.
‘So, as I have to keep reminding everybody, they decided that Europe must be united by stealth. The people of Europe were far too stupid to listen to their wise words, so the people of Europe must be shanghaied into a united Europe while they are asleep. In practice, this meant turning Europe into a single entity a small step at a time, slice by slice, until Europeans one day woke up to a united Europe where peace, love and sunshine would reign supreme forevermore. This would take years, the world’s slowest coup d’état. About a century from 1918 in fact, but the noble forefathers of the European Project knew they were right; even though the ordinary people in their ignorance thought that the noble forefathers were a bunch of high flown wax-chewing Icaruses; wise fools and ill informed egotistical ignoramuses. Or is it ignorami? And patronising to boot, thinking that they knew better than the gut instincts and folklore of millions of people over centuries. These rational Pharisees thought that not only was uniting Europe a good and great thing, but that they had the right to inflict their crackpot theory on millions of people without so much as a by-your-leave. They could not win over the people by the logical arguments of which they were so proud, but instead of conceding that there might be a logic higher than their own, they simply assumed that those who rejected their theories must be halfwits or malicious or both.’ He finished his tea in a marked manner.
‘That, my petal, is condescending. Compared to them, I am merely an amateur.’
‘But one who aspires to be a well-paid professional.’