Saturday 12 October 2013

Council of Despair - The Supreme Sacrifice

By Sali Mali-Cachu

The Chief wandered into the Reichstag Chamber where workers were busy sweeping up the debris from the raid earlier in the week. Bits of paper fluttered in the wind from the gaping holes in the roof, and plaster lay strewn across the floor. Sprayed on the wall was some graffiti which read, "SC woz ere", and rather puzzlingly another message which read "I ni y bydd dial, medd Cylch yr Iaith. Watsiwch mas".

"Ms Klebb, what is the meaning of this?" the Chief asked his Propaganda Minister.

"Oh, just someone saying that his watch is broken. And I am pleased to report, Kommandant, that the Home Front will be spared worrying about any of this. The Reichs Journal is concentrating on the news that we have dealt most severely with 19 people in the last week alone for dropping cigarette ends and sweet wrappers."

The assault on the building had been a close run thing, culminating in an attempt by a young man with spectacles and a broken leg to raise the hated "Ddraig Goch" from the top of the Reichstag.

The old place had taken a severe pounding from the enemy, urged on as usual by sections of the Press Corps and bloggers hurling incendiaries. If it hadn't been for the Chief's last minute intervention which brought matters to a sudden end, who knows what could have happened.

He shuddered, and recalled his telephone conversation a couple of days ago with his old friend and ally Brynito down in the sunnier climes of Pembroccia.

Brynito had been hysterical. "Eccellenza, they trya keel me. This mob they trya lynch me from a lampost. Marco, bois-a-bach, whaddya wanna me do?"

There had been many times when the Chief had regretted getting tangled up with Brynito Bach and his tinpot regime, which lurched from one crisis to the next.

"I will send you an elite detachment of my special legal forces. That should tie any troublemakers down for a few months", he had said before slamming the phone down.


Back in the calm of the Executive Suite, Smithers was waiting with a soothing cup of the Prince's Own Myddfai Herbal Remedy.

"There is a deputation from the Olympic Stadium to see you, your Highness. It seems they have run out of money again."

"Show them in, Smithers", said the Chief, and moments later a group of men in blazers was seated around the Louis Quinze mahogany conference table.

"Sir, your great legacy is in jeopardy unless we can secure a new funding agreement," the Chairman began.

The Chief thought of his beautiful, gleaming Olympic Park which was now about to be enhanced with a brand new 24-hour hostelry and a kiddy friendly alcopops bar.

"How much?" asked the Chief.

"Well, 200 grand a year until the next election should keep us ticking over. About £800,000 in total. We'll need quite a bit more after that, mind. In return the squad will perform their Chippendales routine at the shopping centre next door for free once a month. That should bring the housewives flocking in."

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr Chairman, and times are difficult. Let's call it a million and be done with the haggling."

The tense negotiations with the Olympic delegation had barely ended when the Head Beancounter phoned.

"But, Sir, we just don't have that kind of money. We cannot afford these grandiose schemes any more".

The Chief thought things over for a moment. "I have as always a solution to our little money problems, Roger", the Chief said soothingly. "Call 400 or so assorted junior staff together in the Chancellery Courtyard for 22.00 hours prompt."

Turning to Smithers as Terry purred loudly from his vantage point on his master's lap, the Chief barked, "And call the General Staff for a Conference in the Bunker at 10.00 on Monday sharp. I am going to show those pathetic cowards how we will achieve a final victory and destroy the opposition once and for all".


Later that evening the Chief shuffled out in his greatcoat to address the assembled staff in the Great Courtyard.

"Cheer, Schweinhunds!" Ms Klebb ordered the sullen crowd. A half-hearted murmur echoed across the square as the Chief mounted his podium.

"These are hard and desperate times", the Chief began. "Reichs Gauleiter von Matsch has told you often enough that we face great challenges and difficult decisions. Unfortunately he cannot be with us this evening as he has a pressing gala engagement elsewhere, and so it falls to me to call upon you all to make the supreme sacrifice to.....".

The Chief's voice tailed off as he read the words Ms Klebb had printed for him on a specially embossed card.

"die like the vermin you are and in line with our Strategic Assessment in order to facilitate an exciting and bio sustainable eco friendly shoppertainment complex opening soon with Dai Green and the Scarlet Strippers in an all-you-can-eat bonanza of family fun and frolics".

"Ms Klebb, I think something has gone wrong with this news release. But no matter."

Turning to the crowd, the Chief took up where he had left off.

"To make the ultimate sacrifice for me and our glorious thousand year Authority. Bearing this in mind, you are all sacked. Mrs von Palm has your P45s."


Anonymous said...


Anonymous said...

Anschluss with Sir Benfro

Tessa said...

Very, very funny, but chilling, too....

Anonymous said...

What can we as tax taxpayers do?

Anonymous said...

@ anon 19:41 We can raise awareness of the shenanigans going on in CCC by spreading the word, directing people to Cneifiwr and Caebrwyns blogs etc. The more people that know the bigger the outcry!