Ruin Nation (18 page)

The first stop’s
Knightsbridge
for something called a ‘meet and greet’ – or is it a ‘shake-and-fake’? I can never remember. We’re here to meet the bulbous little sods in charge of British Industry. What’s left of it.

In the past, their nefarious naughtiness in pursuit of power and the pound was frowned upon. Now
Malmot’s here to bullshit them round to his way of thinking. We keep Bactrian under wraps until the press have been nobbled and all the guests are well and truly plastered.

You can ascertain how important people are by how busy they’re supposed to be. Piers Dordogne, the horrendously unattractive chairman of
English Electric,
spends the majority of his days dreaming up easily-remedied business dilemmas he can set right when asked by shareholders what use he is to man or beast. Around this usefulness, he slots the twin tasks of under servicing and overcharging his clients.

Charles
Bunnyfroth occupies an inordinate amount of time chairing a quango, a quasi-autonomous non-governmental organisation; an investigative committee paid to stare up its own backside till it sees something. This ‘something’ will almost always be in complete agreement with the government that isn’t supposed to be associated with it, and almost always ludicrous. Because Bunnyfroth is stark, staring mad. When asked to look into allegations of vote-stealing made by Opposition members, he discovered that the majority of names on the electoral register belonged to dead people. To stop this obvious corruption he flattened all the cemeteries.

“I’ll stop those dead bastards!” he’s been heard to say. On numerous occasions.

Tristram Shelley-Tewks is a semi-professional launch party guest and incorrigible ponce. He spends his mornings ‘rebranding’ companies and his afternoons trying not to hate himself. To ‘rebrand’ you pick some random words from the dictionary, splice them together in a pseudo-logical fashion and then add a couple of vowels to the end. The resulting guff is then sold to a stupid person who needs a new name for their unfashionable business.

But times are hard for Shelley-
Tewks. With hyperinflation to worry about, the last thing a manufacturer needs is a big sign with a nonsense word on it. This reflects the uselessness of his creativity and, in turn, the complete pointlessness of his existence. No one else seems to mind, though. They love his garish neckties.

Amidst these people and countless other blights on the face of the Earth, you’ll see me. I’m scowling at something, I expect. I’ll be in a bad mood. Because I’ve never liked Knightsbridge. I’ve never liked anywhere in central London. I can’t stand the crowds and their constituent components: the Sweaty Blockers, the Random Gropers and the Terminal Fuckwits; not to mention rogue priests, perverts and psychiatric patients with blades – sometimes all three in one convenient package.

I hate the Beautiful People; the headless chickens in their black-market designer labels. And I truly despise the wannabes in their
counterfeit
designer labels, topped off with ridiculous baseball caps. I don’t understand why they choose clothes over their children’s food.

This whole circus... it’s all artifice, the illusion of status. The fact we’re here to celebrate Industry is beyond laughable, beyond contempt. There’s cash to be had machining poor quality firearms, but that’s about it. The last new product manufactured in this country was Bactrian. And
I
made him.

Well, we’ve got a fantastic stage for today’s events: a massive, raised platform nestled into the bombed-out ruins of a twelve-story department store. The whole front face of the building is missing, the upper floors long since collapsed and the roof open to the heavens like some square Coliseum. The blank, glassless windows on the back and side walls glow like bloodshot eyes, streaming light from the poisonous red sky. At weekends, they use this place for hangings.

Today’s Bactrian’s big test, and we’re making things easier for the big, dead lummox by getting the press absolutely blind drunk. Because the last thing we need are sober photographers.

I’ve avoided the hospitality tent, trying desperately not to avail myself of the free drinks. Instead, I station security there to push people back in if they look anywhere near sober – kind of reverse bouncers.

Now back to that big stage: I can see Dordogne, Bunnyfroth; and there’s Shelley-Tewks, wringing his hands and weeping silently into a handkerchief. I'm in position, way up in an opposite building, clutching binoculars and a radio control handset. Calamari, stationed at the sound desk on the other side of the street, turns and gives me the thumbs up. We're live in five. I flick on my switches, push the twin control sticks forward and Bactrian's distant body stiffens. I inch his wheelchair forward. He ascends via a ramp, flanked by the goons from my car journey. And then it occurs to me: the platform’s so high and the goons so big that the audience can barely see the former Prime Minister. Clever Malmot, I think to myself. And what’s this I can hear? It’s one of those mass-produced public relations women I mentioned a while back, the ones with a clipboard instead of a left nipple, briefing the hammered reporters:

“Before we start,
guys
, they’re not gonna tell you this officially, but Bactrian’s had a stroke. It’s no biggy. We don’t want you to make a big fuss of it,
guys
. But that’s the deal. That’s why he’s in the chair,
guys
. He’s still all there,
up top
, but you might find him a little, kind of…immobile. So don’t you go too hard on him,
guys
, because you won’t win friends picking on cripples.”

I hear
Malmot’s lies on the tip of her tongue and it makes me laugh. Only this morning he told me:

“The wheelchair? Why, it’s an absolute godsend. It’s a politically correct bullet-proof vest.”

As I might have mentioned, we’re a cynical, cynical organisation. Is two ‘cynicals’ enough? No? Well, add a third. Then add a fourth when you discover Malmot’s added further distractions in the form of a number of Z-list celebrities. We’ve got Dougal ‘Pretty Boy’ Hamstrung, the hunky presenter of a house makeover programme; Patty Rankle, who once played a busty barmaid in a long forgotten soap opera, and Dave Cosmos. God knows what Dave Cosmos does. 

Bactrian starts to talk. I’m not sure what he’s going to say because
Malmot edited the tape from previous speeches.  And how's he going to pre-empt the questions? Where’s he been? South America? Why’s he come back? The Ceesal hoax? Then back to South America again. How were Elvis and Hitler?

Well, we’ve been smart enough to scramble the public address system, treating the audience to a chorus of static hum and feedback. And it seems we have someone else on our side: God. For once.

I’ve been willing the sky to crack open for some time. Now it’s happening. And what kind of downpour will we get today? Acidic, that’s for sure. But will it be Nitric, Carbolic or our old friend, Sulphuric? Well, whadaya know? It’s Sulphuric! And I figure it’s time for this young gentleman to find some cover. And I watch the heavens open from the shelter of a doorway with no room attached. And I see the rain sluice the streets of suits. Acid rain: the disinfectant man created to wipe out his own bacterial presence.

“God pisses on all of us,” says a kindly faced squatter, white bearded and trying to relieve me of my wallet.

“Especially you,” I say, as his fingers find the fishhooks in my pocket.

Rain pours down and down, forcing herds of human cattle into the indoor market and the reassuring arms of consumerism. But I’m happy just watching.

The individuals who brave the storm, threading their way through the caustic raindrops – where are they going? And why challenge the rain to do it? I frame them with my fingers. With the purring water to silence their words, they lose their place in time and the mundane scheme of things. They become iconic. Knightsbridge in the rain is beautiful, a sea of rippling reflections; wet, kinetic and dangerous, like the sex you always dreamed of. It’s a place of little mysteries; commonplace intrigues lent myth by the rain’s filter. I could learn to love it.

Well, the questions
did
come up but Calamari had the fantastic idea of shoving a walkie-talkie under the dead man’s shirt and answering them himself. So, no doubt, there was a degree of political ranting with a violent sexual subtext. But, do you know what? Nobody cared. They all were too busy thrusting out their jaws and presenting their best sides to where they thought the photographers were. I guess it must’ve been hard to tell from way up on stage, but the entire press contingent were busy vomiting in a ditch, stricken with alcohol poisoning. You see, you give me a job and I do it well.

So the mission’s been a complete success. We’ve passed off a carcass as a living dignitary. Now for Stage Two: the destruction of democracy.

We’re charging down the motorway in a tour bus that looks like a huge, black whale. An armour-plated whale, if there is such a thing. The few vehicles on the badly-maintained road, they get out of our way. Fast. We’re not slowing down for anything, even potholes. We hit bomb craters and structural fissures, and we scud out of them like a shark breaching some shitty, tarmac ocean. We’ve got the goons in the back. They love it. They say it feels like flying.

“Enjoy it while you can!” Calamari snaps. And then he turns to me with a look that could boil water. “
Irregulars
. Fucking ‘Brownshirts’. They call themselves police, but they’re little more than thugs. I wouldn’t bother getting to know them. They won’t be around for very long.”

I’m not used to conversing with Calamari. He makes me nervous.

“Why are they here?” is all I can think to say.

“Just a little extra business,” he says warily. “Why the sudden interest?”

“I’m nosey,” I answer.

“Then you should consider becoming a spy,” he hisses, and then snarls when I him ask what the pay’s like. It’s a double bluff on my part. I’m wondering if he knows about my deal with Calamine.

Night falls and I’m lying in a tiny bunk, wondering what kind of organisation I’m a part of. We’re a curious mix of military, secret police and thugs. This isn’t usual. Why would a man with an army at his command send out a team of civilian yobs?

Well, all will become clear – or, at least,
clearer
– later. Now, respect the frailties of an old man, will you, and stop the recorder. This ageing carcass requires the bathroom.

*
* *

“A day off?” I can’t believe it.

“Time off for good behaviour,” says Elton. He's been drafted in as message boy.

“Where’s Calamari?” I ask.

“We’re to pick ‘im up from
Chiquita’s
on
Dirtygirl Street
. It’s easy to find, ‘e says. It’s situated directly opposite a massive mobile telephone mast, an’ the hookers in the window wear radiation suits. ‘E says ‘e’ll be inside, ‘briefin’ female agents. Till then, you’ve got the day ter ourselves.”

So I end up nursing a beer I have no intention of drinking, in some roadside hellhole somewhere, with Elton trying to impress the goons. The atmosphere’s surprisingly convivial and he takes the opportunity to get all gynaecological about a Bulgarian exchange student he once had the pleasure of – ‘Strong jaw muscles,’ being one of the cleaner comments.

“She was a big star on the
Squelchin’
scene,” he says.

“
Squelching
?” roars a thug. “Is that like
Sploshing
?”

Elton rubs his hands together, warming to the topic. “Totally, totally different, my friend.
Sploshin’
involves mess: mud, paint, custard pies an’ the like. With
Squelchin’,
well, it’s a purely sonic form of pornography, wiv the emphasis on the sounds produced.”

I’ve mentioned Elton’s creepy voice before. Now we’re hearing his creepy thoughts.

“What’s the point in that?” sneers the thug and makes some joke about “Not seeing no ‘points’ at all”.

“The thrill comes from
yer interpretation of the sounds,” Elton explains. “Yer own filthy imagination!”

“But, surely you could fake it?” I ask. 

“Real aficionados can tell. Different parts of the body ‘ave distinctive acoustics, which the trained ear can distinguish between.”

“Uh huh?” says I. Maybe my tone conveys more than intended.

“You're judgin' me!” he protests. “But it ain’t
my
idea. The Equal Opportunities Commission dreamt it up. They thought the porn industry discriminated against the blind and put the first tapes out as talkin’ books.”

“Interesting.” I say. “So how do you get into the industry?”

Elton thinks for a second.

“‘
Ard work an’ a big resonant chamber!”

Time and drinks pass. The drinks get shorter and more potent whilst the group get shorter and more impotent. And the talk gets plain stupid.

“It’s funny,” says somebody, “but all over England scores in Languages and Maths exams fall but Chemistry grades go through the roof. It’s so they can [belch!] …It’s so they can manufacture their own drugs.”