The cafe with five faces, p.36
The Café with Five Faces, page 36
“And quite lengthy,” added Jen, with an unsurprising touch of sarcasm.
“I thought of calling it 2020, but I thought it was too Orwellian.”
“The title doesn’t matter, mate; it’s Orwellian enough already,” I said firmly.
“Maybe the fantasy of George Orwell meets the fiction of JK Rowling?” suggested Jen.
“Are you suggesting an element of plagiarism?” asked Jimez, looking suddenly concerned.
“I think you might get away with calling it drawing inspiration from the work of others,” said Jen, more sympathetically.
“You need to be careful who sees pieces of writing like that these days,” I warned. “Your story could be quite prophetic.”
There was a knock at the door.
The Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, a symbol of divisions of the past and portent of divisions of the future.
2019: 57: Cape Town: The Clouds of Autocracy Gather Over a Dis-United Kingdom
Mike, James and John had been missing in action somewhere in the world for over a month, leading me to wonder just how my Cape Town room had survived, structurally or financially, without its usual props. The length of their absence did not bode well for their return after an August of national discontent had generated an awful lot of griping and grumbling to catch up on. And when it came to griping and grumbling, these three were past masters.
“Eh up, lads,” Mike, first and foremost amongst the aforementioned virtuosos, greeted his two friends in those dulcet northern tones we all know and, sometimes, love so well, as they sauntered into the bar a mere one minute and thirty-three seconds after his own arrival. “Welcome home, as the clouds of autocracy gather over the dis-United Kingdom.” The latter utterance seemed to pave the way for an Obama-esque speech which, knowing Mike, was unlikely to be short in duration, although I temporarily concerned myself more with trying to reconcile the idea of a Barack Obama oration with a gruff Lancastrian accent. “Where to begin?”
“I’m not sure I want you to begin at all,” murmured John, echoing my own sentiments to a certain extent, as we were well aware what Mike had in store for us and could have scripted much of it, had we been forced to. “I’ve had it all up to here,” he added, indicating a place about a foot over his head. Both he and I knew this semi-plea was futile in the presence of Mike, a man who enjoyed a moan, even though it often left him feeling physically sick. It was one of those perverse wonders of modern social interactional conversation.
It seemed Mike had not even heard the request, however, as he took a sip of his first beer of the evening and considered his launching pad. This was clearly a task not lacking in difficulty with such a wide range of woes to choose from.
John attempted to derail him before he started. “Bad start to the season,” he said with an intonation which left me unsure as to whether this was a statement or a question.
“Humph.” I considered this to be a suitable enough response on its own in the circumstances, but, as it came from Mike, waited for the inevitable elaboration. “Four games in and it’s already City versus Liverpool for the title and forget the rest,” he muttered as unhappily as would any other Manchester United supporter in the present era of alternative north-west domination. “At least in Spain, Barcelona and Real Madrid have had the decency to make uncertain starts to the season to give the others some short-term hope.”
As he was in the presence of a group of fellow like-minded United supporters not accustomed to seeing their much-disliked neighbours in the ascendancy, this represented an end to a temporary and rather distasteful diversion.
James gave in to a further inevitable and decided, somewhat needlessly, to prompt his volatile friend, although he accompanied the question with a nervous, half-hearted laugh designed to disarm. “So, are you still a loyal Tory after this month?”
“Absolutely not!” declared Mike vehemently. “After fifty-odd years of faithful support, one month of that Trump-clone buffoon named Johnson has proven to be the final straw. He’s managed to turn loyalty into shame. He’s like Gellert Grindelwald, lying that what he is doing is for ‘the greater good’, but when the ‘good’ only serves the interests of the minority, in other words, if you’ll forgive the Harry Potter analogy, the wizards or the filthy rich, while riding roughshod over the vast majority, aka the Muggles or the ordinary mortals.”
“I’m not sure even the fictional Grindelwald could lie to the same extent as the real-life Johnson, but otherwise, you’re forgiven,” James said consolingly.
“I mean, whatever happened to the much-vaunted ‘broad church’ of the Conservative party?” Mike continued, obviously not waiting for an answer. “What’s left within one day of the end of the summer recess is the European Reform Group, the sheep who follow them and Brexit party entryists. And the short-term future seems to include a laughably termed ‘non-aggression pact’ with what I used to call, and still believe to be, the Farridge Losers’ Party.”
“And then there’s the recumbent Rees-Mogg…,” John began, as if trying to run through the agenda of hopelessness as quickly as possible.
“Oh, don’t get me started!” exclaimed Mike, even though it was already too late. “He can lie where he wants and lie about what he wants; he only ever does or believes what suits him. His words are worthless, no matter where he dictates the commas should be put!” The last clause at least managed to raise a laugh among the assembled English language purists, although in terms of volume and length, it was decidedly lukewarm. “And what do we have now? A prime minister who wants to call a general election where Brexit will be the only real issue, and yet refuses to call a People’s Vote in which Brexit would obviously be the only issue but where it might actually produce a definitive result. It’s ridiculous! He accuses the opposition of cowardice in not wanting to face the electorate, but he won’t call a second referendum, which would give the self-same electorate a real say on the real problem of the day and might actually provide a clear, worthwhile answer!”
“He just isn’t interested in what people think or say unless it’s what he wants to hear, though,” added James, while Mike drew breath and lubricated his vocal cords. “When he decided to prorogue parliament, that verb no one had heard of until last month, there were so many protests and over a million signatures against it within twenty-four hours; I mean, only a complete arse could ignore that as completely as he did!”
“Unfortunately,” interrupted John, “that’s what we’ve got as a PM.”
“And then you have his shameless flock,” Mike resumed, “the people who so recently declared that suspending parliament would be an abuse of democracy and who now sit in Johnson’s inner circle with thoughts of nothing other than their careers. These people are hypocritical beyond contempt – their change of mind is so brazenly in their own self-interest and their attitude screams be damned to Britain. Job or country – I always knew what those cowards would choose – and choose they have. I mean, we always suspected Dominic Raab had screws loose based on his leadership campaign, but the overt hypocrisy of people like Baby-Face Gove and Doormat Hancock beggars belief!” John looked mildly affronted at Mike’s use of his catchphrase but decided to remain mute. “Not really a shock, but shocking nonetheless.”
“And all the while,” interrupted James, who was in an unusually vociferous frame of mind, “he tries to buy people’s support by promising huge amounts of funding using money which seems to have been sourced from a magician’s hat. Why should we actually believe all the promises of new cash for education and the NHS that BoJo is making? He’s never done anything but tell porkies and this latest batch are just sweeteners to get Brexit and then to be conveniently forgotten.”
The torrent of complaint was far from streamlined, as you may have noticed, so please forgive the randomness and occasional lack of coherence in the dialogue. Mike decided to move on to his latest pet dislike (and, over a relatively short period of history, there were enough of these to fill a substantial zoo). “Is Dominic Cummings the Steve Bannon of the UK or what – the most hated and subversive non-elected national control freak around?” James and John opened their mouths to either answer or make a contribution, but that was as far as they got. “He certainly seems to have adopted the Arron Banks mantle in the UK – and that took some doing! I presume both Banks and Cummings attended the Steve Bannon Alt-Right School of How to Undermine People and Win Undeserved and Unwanted Influence.” I assumed he hadn’t come up with this rather ridiculous name on the spot, but had instead dedicated some prior thought to it, a supposition endorsed by what followed. “Known in some circles as ‘ARSE-HUPWUUI’, or ‘ARSE-Poohi’, or just ‘The School of Plain Shit’.”
“It’s hard to believe that in a democracy, which was once the envy of the world, one unelected, anarchic fascist can wield so much power,” said John. “Beggars belief indeed!”
“I watched a documentary recently about the rise of the Nazis in 1930s Germany and some of the characters reminded me so much of Farridge, Banks, Cummings, Johnson, Bannon, the Trump, etcetera, it really made me fear for democracy in the western world,” Mike went on. “And Putin is just sitting on the side-lines, rubbing his hands in glee, watching his opponents tearing themselves apart and shredding liberal democracy, while he doesn’t even have to lift a pseudo-commie finger, at least, not openly.”
“And while allowing him to meddle in Ukraine and Syria with little restraint because the west is too preoccupied with itself,” proffered James.
“He isn’t alone either,” said John. “Netanyahu is taking advantage of the distractions to bomb the Beqaa in Lebanon again.”
Mike’s response was to do a fair impression of an angry Rottweiler. After he’d finished his almost comically prolonged growling, he acknowledged the lack of news coverage regarding the incidents his friends had referred to with little short of disdain and the solitary word, “Typical.”
John decided to change tack slightly with what initially sounded like an attempt at humour. “What’s the difference between the alt-right Conservatives and the Brexit Party?”
“Is that the start of a joke?” asked Mike, deciding the question wasn’t deserving of a direct answer. “More like the end of one! Just as it’s the end of the Conservative Party, in terms of principles, if not name.” He took a sip of ale before resuming. “He wasn’t the best PM ever, but John Major, along with Michael Heseltine and Kenneth Clarke, should be at the forefront of British politics now, rather than the alt-right fringe who are scuppering democracy. On the one hand, you’ve got the grandees of the Tory party, the real Conservatives, like Heseltine, Major and Clarke, who are spouting so much common sense, and on the other hand, you’ve got the wankers like Johnson and Rees-Mogg, who are too cowardly to join the party they really belong to, namely the Brexit Party, probably because they realise they would have to be led by that simpering fool, Farridge, so instead drag the Tory party so far to the right, it will become as unelectable as it is increasingly despicable.” Another sip of beer and a sharp intake of breath followed, although these did not combine very well, resulting in some spluttering. Even this couldn’t stop the tirade, however. “And guess which twat congratulated Johnson by tweet, saying how impossible it would be for anyone to win a vote of no confidence against him because he is doing such a great job?”
“Hmmm, let me think… maybe the Trump,” suggested James, “the one who is so deluded he actually thinks he’s doing a great job himself?”
“Good guess,” Mike said, disingenuous in his praise, as the conjecture could have been made by a two-year-old.
“Not to worry,” I said, vainly trying to offer a modicum of comfort. “People will eventually realise they’ve backed the wrong donkey in Johnson.”
“What on earth still persuades parents to spend money on stupidly expensive education when it seems to produce an excessive proportion of dickheads like Rees-Mogg and Johnson?” Mike knew there was, yet again, no answer forthcoming, or at least not one of a concise and logical nature, so filled the brief silence with an elongated sigh. “The whole thing just makes me want to close my eyes and think of Lebanon.”
“I thought it was supposed to be ‘shut your eyes and think of England’?” remarked John.
“So it is, but England, along with the rest of the UK, is so bad at the moment due to all this Brexit no-deal crap, I’d rather think of somewhere else, thank you very much. And Lebanon seems to be a relatively sane choice.” He drained his glass and gestured, unusually wordlessly, for another round, before continuing in a voice laced with sadness. “I was a Tory supporter for fifty years, but the way the party turned on and ridiculed, first of all, the leaders of the other parties for coming together and trying to save our country and guarantee democracy, and then their own members who voted in the interests of their constituents, made me completely sick and ashamed I was ever a voter. And suspending parliament is a disgrace – Johnson is an autocratic prime minister who is a shameful and shameless embarrassment to the UK, having the gall to represent us unelected and without any kind of mandate on the international stage.”
“One aim of Brexit already seems to have been achieved before it’s even happened,” commented James, although this was far from being of any consolation. “More EU citizens are leaving the country and fewer arriving.”
“Well, seriously,” Mike retorted, “who is going to want to come to a country known for racial hatred? And that’s what Britain is already on the road to, thanks to you-know-what.”
“The worst thing is,” John said thoughtfully, “is that we’re becoming immune to the craziness, numb to all the hypocrisy and madness. Farage, Johnson and the Trump can say what they want, lie as much as they want and deny obvious truth and reality, and the silent majority just think, ‘Oh, there he goes again,’ and let it go as though it was some kind of harmless joke made by an irrelevant clown, rather than something which is undermining everything we have fought for over decades, and even western democracy itself.”
Mike looked impressed and clearly wished he had produced such a straightforward and concise utterance.
“If there can be more than one ‘worst thing’,” said James, taking over the baton, “it’s the preparation for no-deal. Billions of pounds thrown away on something needless, to say nothing of the stupid advertising campaign warning everyone to ‘get ready’ for it, and all sorts of emergency aid being mooted. I hear there are plans for truckloads of food and medicines to be flown into the UK on cargo planes. I mean to say, if a sitcom writer produced something like this, it would be rejected as being too far-fetched!”
“Isn’t this what happens when a natural disaster strikes a third-world country?” asked Mike in more than mild bewilderment. “It isn’t supposed to occur when self-inflicted damage hits a first-world nation!” Much nodding, and drinking, ensued before Mike resumed in his best orator’s voice. “Never in the field of political endeavour has so much been fucked up by so few for the benefit of so few.” It was difficult to argue, so silence followed whilst second winds were sought.
It didn’t take Mike long to find his. “And yet another ‘worst thing’ in this is the Trump acting like a benign shepherd with his promise of a big trade deal, which Congress will never ratify because of the effect of no-deal on the Irish peace process, when, in fact, all he is hoping for is to drive us over the edge of a cliff into an abyss of misery which he can then take advantage of.”
“Sounds like what happened in Far from the Madding Crowd,” intervened James, provoking bemused looks from the company. “You know, the novice sheepdog that gets carried away and drives the entire flock over a cliff into the sea?” His friends remained lost and decided the contribution was best ignored.
“It’s amazing the lies Brexiteers come out with,” Mike resumed. “They even make liars out of themselves, getting tied up in never-ending knots. Dominic Raab, for example, waffles on about how a no-deal Brexit was always a given possibility when there is clear visual and documentary evidence to prove the complete opposite! Oh, what a tangled web they weave, when first they practise to deceive.” He allowed the assembly to digest the slightly amended proverb before developing his argument (otherwise known as rambling) further.
“The Americans know the UK will be in no position to negotiate and desperate for anything we can get. It was so humiliating to hear Raab gushing after a recent visit to the US; what was it he said, ‘It was amazing to hear an American president talk about our country in such warm terms’? What does he expect to hear from a second-hand car salesman with a death-trap to sell? Talk about gullible.
“And all the time, Johnson and his bully-boy-in-chief, Cummings, are doing everything they can to make sure the blame for no-deal is laid at every door but theirs! Seriously, what extremist idiots would want to drag their country through the mire for what increasingly obviously is no gain whatsoever…? Britain is – or was – a liberal democracy…” At this point, even Mike, perhaps realising he was in danger of repeating the same phrases and arguments over and over, ran out of words.
Something stirred in John’s memory. “I read a report in The Guardian last month, and it occurred to me there was something wrong with it. It went on about the Trump ‘rowing with fellow G7 leaders over his demand that Russia be readmitted to the group, rejecting arguments that it should remain an association of liberal democracies’. It seemed to imply the Trump and Johnson run liberal democracies.” Although far from funny, this did raise a few ironic laughs. These quickly faded.
James briefly took over the reins. “Why does the Trump want to buy Greenland when he might very soon get the United Kingdom for free? I saw that on Facebook last month and it struck me as one of those comments which was half-joke, half-scary reality.”
