Tuesday 5 May 2015

Council of Despair - Restless Natives

After another extended stay in the Beti George Clinic, Sali Malu-Cachu is back!


The distinguished group sat around the gigantic walnut table in the oak panelled billiard room, each with a neat pile of papers before them.

The silver normally on display had been carefully removed out of temptation's way, and coffee had been served in polystyrene cups tastefully decorated with a sticker emblazoned with the authority's coat of arms.

In pride of place over the massive fire place hung a newly commissioned portrait of Muriel and the Chief displaying their collection of medals against a backdrop of shopping centres, info-tainment complexes and a huge empty sports stadium, with Muriel holding up a parchment from Windsor Castle. Clearly discernible were the words,

To my loyal and faithful servants for services rendered to property development and for dealing with the natives. E II R

The Chief was in good spirits. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, this has indeed been a most productive meeting of our new Constitutional Review Working Committee, or CRWC for short. Our work is almost at an end, but I have one small additional item which unfortunately came too late for the published agenda."

The Chief produced a small piece of paper.

"After extensive consultation between myself and Linda, I think you will agree that this small clause should rightfully be given a place at the end of our new, improved constitution."

He cleared his throat and began to read.

Whereas and notwithstanding the provisions set out in the paragraphs above and all ancillary schedules, codicils and subsidiary parts thereof and in accordance with the powers invested under the Fiefdoms and Rotten Boroughs Act (Wales) 1862, the Head of Paid Service may without reference to any lesser personages change or cause to be interpreted any part of this Constitution at any time or at the drop of a hat, whichsoever shall be the lesser of these two eventualities, in circumstances extraordinary or otherwise in any manner deemed appropriate, and his word shall be final in all matters pertaining thereto.

"It only remains for this to be run through Google Translate, and our work is done," he concluded.

A man at the far end of the table fidgeted uncomfortably and raised his hand. The chief couldn't help noticing that despite the torrential rain and the very gloomy skies outside, this guest had a pair of sunglasses propped on top of his head.

"Yes, what is it, Emyr?"

"Um, it's Emlyn, Sir. I just couldn't help thinking that this new clause sounded a little, well, sweeping. Would it be possible to see a copy and vote on it?"

The Chief looked like thunder.

"How many times have I told you all that we must cut down on paper? It will be provided to you electronically along with the minutes in due course. And as for voting, may I remind you that you have been invited, albeit temporarily, to witness the workings of the highest levels of this organisation. We do not vote, but agree unanimously. On everything."

Emlyn decided to have one more go.

"But Sir, I am not happy that some of the changes you have proposed have already been implemented, such as the new rule banning the use of the past tense in meetings."

"Now look, Gandalf, the minutes stated quite clearly that there was unanimous agreement on this. We must look forward and not back. Did you not read the minutes?"

"I did, Sir, and I wonder if the minutes were, well, strictly accurate on that point."

"May I remind you that you just agreed along with all your colleagues that the minutes produced by my staff compare most favourably with anything produced by any lesser authority. Now if that is all, I have urgent business to attend to."

With that the Chief swept from the room, leaving the visitors to shuffle out through the tradesmen's entrance.


The Chief entered the drawing room and settled into his favourite Louis Quinze damask chair.

"Time for some me time", he sighed, picking up the remote control to activate the giant 72" screen and relax watching his favourite film, Zulu.

And what a thrilling film it was, full of patriotic scenes acted out under the Union Flag with plucky Welshmen such as Michael Caine proudly wearing their smart red British uniforms and knocking seven bells out of a lot of fuzzy-wuzzies. And all for Queen and Country.

But how this once great country had gone to the dogs. If Zulu were re-made today, the Chief mused, it would have to be set somewhat closer to home, with wave after wave of wild Nationalists assaulting a bastion defended only by himself, Muriel, the dog woman, the Reverend Bonnett and Mr Mudge waffling indecisively in the background.

He could picture that awful woman from the Rhondda urging them on; the wild looking bard from the barren mountain slopes of Cwmpengraig hurling penillion at the defenders and that dreadful man Lenny Henry brandishing his asegai and asking a lot of impertinent questions.

Things were not much better down south, with reports coming in of hand-to hand fighting in a town he had showered with every conceivable benefit of British civilisation: Shakespeare, Superstars of Wrestling, Jim Davidson...what more did these ingrates want? And yet people were flocking to the banner of rebellion raised by a mild-mannered young school teacher. Even that fierce woman in the beehive was looking rattled. What was her name? Patsy? Myfanwy?

Image result for angry old woman

The Chief's reveries came to an abrupt end at the sound of a polite cough.

It was Walters, the new butler dressed in a smart page-boy uniform and closely cropped hair.

"What is it, Bob?" the Chief asked.

"Bad news from the Servants Hall, I am afraid, Sir. Fudd the gamekeeper is out of action again."

"What has he done this time?" the Chief snapped.

"I regret that he has shot himself in the foot. Again. And there is more. Miss Harpic, the woman you recently appointed to manage the grounds and the drive has walked out, saying this place is a shambles."

"What?" yelled the Chief. "I knew no good would ever come of appointing a woman, Bob. Well she won't be getting a reference from me!"

"She won't be needing one, Sir," Walters replied. "I am afraid she has been poached by Smithers, your old butler."

At that moment a large black cloud blotted out the sun, and the Chief snapped the remote control clean in two.


Anonymous said...

Love it - good laugh to start the day.

Tessa said...

Hilarious! Thanks!

Anonymous said...

Hilarious and inspired! And sadly near the mark...