Ruin Nation (9 page)

He wears gaudily patterned sweaters. He believes they make him more approachable. They don’t. He smiles wide and often, but never with the eyes. Whatever his intended facial expression, from faux shock to joyous rapture, those black orbs stay dead as a shark’s.

Tune in around midday, just after the televised executions, you can watch him in action. Smack yourself in the skull until you’re down to fifty I.Q. points and you might even enjoy it. There’s ex soap stars plugging spin-off series; sanitised, sub-tabloid gossip from no-listers who’ve found the limelight by flaunting their personality disorders on docu-soaps; a woman who’s overcome tragedy by biting out her own malignant melanoma; and to finish, a gay man butchering a classic song in a tortured cat yodel. It's a world away from the world of serious journalism he craves.

“Don't let it bother you,” he tells his reflection before each show. “What was it Marie Antoinette said? Let them watch crap?”

But tonight will be different. Tonight he has a
real
interview. With Ceesal.

Ceesal. He owed his initial popularity to the accidental invention of a rugby tackle called the
Buttocks Of Steel
and his continued success to the ability to fit an entire ashtray in his mouth whilst simultaneously lighting gaseous rectal emissions. He had that weird pathological thing of going to sleep in confined spaces, usually cupboards. He had wonky eyes and a tongue that lolled out of his mouth like a wilted sea cucumber. He was terminally stupid.

The New
Ceesal stands straight-backed and handsome in the television studio’s Green Room. Bodyguards Big Tony and Mustapha pretend not to look as he clasps a kneeling woman to his groin. Is it Slutty Admin Girl? Well,her face is hidden but the technique seems familiar.

So, whilst our heroine works her way up the employment ladder in the time-honoured tradition,
Ceesal smiles his sickening rictus grin and grunts like a repulsive, coiffured hog. It’s a less than beautiful moment in the world’s history but these things happen.

Inside an evil-looking car, and
Malmot drives like a man possessed. His incognito status holds no sway with the station’s managers. They repeatedly reject his calls. His Asian chauffeur, relegated to the passenger seat, winces as pedestrians crumple beneath the limo’s reinforced wheels.

“Shut up!”
Malmot screams to his silent passenger, glaring with absent intensity. The chauffeur knows better than to say anything. Malmot, squinting through a rain-lashed, blood-spattered windshield continues:

“Hell! Well, the way I look at it, the more people I run over, the more people get to eat meat tonight.” He laughs. “Still, no good to you, eh?! Not
Halal!”

The chauffeur says nothing. He covers his eyes. He weeps silently.

Back in the Green Room, and Lindberg introduces himself to his guest.

“I know you,”
Ceesal purrs. “Where do I know you from?”

“Eton, Prime Minister.”
“Well, I'll be a... You're right! It's Pip “lindyhop' Lindberg! I used to board with this bugger!” he tells Big Tony. And they celebrate with the one import that always find its way into the country: cocaine.

“Has anyone got a miniature alpine chalet?”
Ceesal howls. “I'm about to turn my head into a snowglobe!”

Malmot
storms through the main entrance, trench coat flapping like leathery wings. Reception may not know his name, but they know his face. They know his intent. They also know that the last person to stand in his way wound up in a gibbet, displayed at the Paedophile’s Gallery at London Bridge.

Now, the basis of politics, as you’ll know, is to take The Truth down a dark alley and beat it to a bloody pulp that thanks you for the privilege. So what Lindberg expects to get from
Ceesal is beyond anyone’s guess. Some journalistic credibility, maybe? A little extra status? Perhaps some cast-off women (nothing new there). But whatever it is, it’s going to be interesting. The new Prime Minister is behaving in an increasingly hostile, increasingly unorthodox manner.

“Ten hours is enough for anyone,”
Ceesal declares archly, testing Lindberg’s reaction. “We should decimalise Time. A hundred second minute would give us forty extra seconds, which means our current system loses us forty seconds a minute. That’s a lot of seconds and they all have to go somewhere. Don’t you think?”

“Indeed I do,” Lindberg answers. Enough cocaine and anything makes sense.

“So, where are they then?” Ceesal presses.

“Where are what?”

“All the lost seconds.”

“I’m not sure that I know,” says Lindberg.

“But you do agree that they’re missing?”

“Of course!”

Then you’re an idiot, thinks Ceesal.

Malmot
enters, trailed by a gaggle of black-clad blonde women bearing clipboards. He has no idea who they are or where they came from. It’s harder still to work out what they do. Are they some form of locally occurring fauna? He waves his
Daily Telegraph
at them, discovering with growing glee that they can be herded like sheep.

Scrawny white men with childish hair and the mental age of teenagers mince to and fro, waving their hands, addressing everyone as ‘Guys!’ and screaming ‘Jesus!’ at the slightest hint of dissent. They seem to think their presence is important. Clearly, it isn't.

Malmot stands silent, surveying the scene. The transition from Green Room schmoozing to interview proper is a blur he can scarcely comprehend. Who knows how these things happen? They defy conventional logic. He retreats into a fantasy world of possible evasive measures: a fire alarm? A drugs raid? Perhaps a good old fashioned incendiary grenade tossed into the director’s room? But the Media have a nasty habit of sniffing around when one of their own explodes into bright orange flame – it makes for such great television. By the time he sets about the relatively simple sabotage of the fuse box, the stage lights are on, the cameras rolling, the theme tune roaring, and Lindberg stands working Ceesal’s hand like a lifeboat bilge pump. They take their appointed places in black leather and aluminium chairs. Ceesal smiles like a Cheshire cat. Thank God the broadcast isn’t live.

The crowd settle in for an hour of easy, informal chat. No hard-nosed interrogative journalism here. Not with a daytime TV lightweight like Lindberg at the helm. No, expect, instead, to see the 'human' face of government; a potted biography, cosy stories about family and friends (a fiancé?) and a few subtle references to his modest upbringing and the dignity of the common workingman and woman. No real opportunity for divulging classified material. No real opportunity to go off on a crazed tangent. No opportunity to spout filth for its own sake.

“Three times in one hour. All on my own!” declares Ceesal in response to a deliberately misheard question about his arrival.

“Excuse me?” asks Lindberg.

Ceesal’s lip curls up into a ghastly grin.

“You heard!” he leers, accompanied by a small gasp from the audience. Lindberg’s beatific, chemical veneer cracks into anguish.

“But I joke, of course,” Ceesal chuckles. The audience laugh nervously. “Probably a bit inappropriate. Didn’t know the cameras were rolling,” he lies. The audience chuckle indulgently.

“We’ll cut that bit out,” says Lindberg.

Damn right, thinks Malmot.

“Oh you won’t, you know!” cries
Ceesal. “Because we’re going out live!”

“What?” Lindberg gasps.

“Well,” starts the Prime Minister, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves, “these things can be so formal, can’t they? They can be so forced, you know. And,
personally
, I’m sick of all the pretence in politics; the packaging; the spin. I don’t want my image airbrushed, my speeches edited, my past, present and future sanitised.”

This meets with a roar of approval from the crowd.

“But? What?!” Lindberg stammers.

“Oh, it’s not so hard to arrange a little thing like a live broadcast,”
Ceesal laughs. “Not when you’re the
Top Man!
”

Lindberg’s eyes bulge like elephant balls.
Malmot cannot experience fear in its conventional sense but his intuition tells him to obtain distance. He sweeps up Slutty Admin Girl and charges toward the nearest exit. Something is said into some device in his gloved hand. The long, black limo oozes up, its right-side window down and Mohammed, the driver, looking concerned.

“You should be watching this,” he says, pointing to one of the vehicle’s television screens.

Slutty Admin Girl stares open-mouthed at the small, flickering image of Ceesal.

“He just hinted at something very rude,” she gasps.

And she's right to gasp. I have a transcript of the interview. Here. Read for yourself.

LINDBERG: [Shocked] ... I trust that was a metaphor?

CEESAL:
Metaphor
? [Feigning ignorance] Like those Spanish chappies who fight bulls! [Laughs] You’ve lost me there, I’m afraid. We were talking about ...

L: [Interrupts] The human side of politics.

C:
Oh yes ...
that!
Now, let’s get one thing straight shall we, Pip, old boy: no matter what noble intentions you enter this game with, you will be hampered at every opportunity by those who have gone before you, become disillusioned, and now work solely for the benefit of their own best interests.

Consequently, a human side – certainly when it comes to things like conscience or compassion – is a weakness, you know. So I repeat: if you want to get ahead, be a cu...

Half the audience hiss. The other half cheer furiously.

CEESAL (CONTINUED): I feel I must address my detractors here, in the audience: this is the
real
me, take it or leave it, you know. I
do
tell coarse jokes. I
do
use offensive language.
Frequently
, in fact. It doesn’t affect my ability to dictate policy. And, on that score, who wants to hear more interesting things about the ‘C Word’?

L: Hah, Hah! Oh, ho, ho, ho! [Forced] Very good! It’s good to know our new premier has a sense of humour
. Really
, that’s good. Funny. [Awkward pause] Ahem.

C:
Oh, I’m renowned for it. Humour, that is, you know. People are always telling me I’m funny. I know an absolute scorcher about a traffic cone, if you’d like to hear it? Actually, it’s more of a funny story. All true of course. It’s about a society hostess who supplements her income by performing onstage. ‘Capacity’, she calls herself.

L: A-hah, hah! The Prime Minister jokes, of course.

C: Nope, all true! Happened to Thackory Rampton, Minister for Transport!

L: Err, yes. Moving on...

C:
Exactly! Well known for his moves is Thackory. Moving violations! That’s why he got Transport Minister!

L: [Mutters to unseen person, stage right] You still want to continue? Christ! Diplomatic immunity? I bloody hope so!

C: [Standing, performing hand gestures] ‘Peep peep!’ he says. ‘Just going to park it in your garage, miss!’ That’s what he says, the filthy barstool! Time for your thousand-mile service? Let’s look under your bonnet, shall we? I’ll just start with this here hooter, young lady!

Boos and catcalls. But an ardent minority clap, cheering louder and louder.

L: Again… if we could talk about you, Minister…

C:
Yes, back to me.

L:
What do you, Prime Minister, do to relax? [Cringes, instantly realising his mistake.]

C:
I go to the gentlemen’s club, of course. You know that, Pip, old boy. You’ve been a member as long as I have. All us Old Etonians... all together... doing what Old Etonians do. Oh, we never really got on that well before, of course. You did seem to regard me as something of an idiot, didn’t you? But, believe me, I was taking it all in. You’re a bit of a livewire on the sly, aren’t you? Aren’t you, Pip, old boy? Remember last month? Francesca, eh?

L: The name doesn’t ring a bell.

C:
Of course it does! Franny the Fanny, you called her. Didn’t think it was too subtle, myself. A bit sexist. But, then again, she’s your pick up – you can call her what you want.

L: I don’t recall.

C: Oh yes you do! You call her frequently. No wonder you’re divorced! Eh? Eh, old boy?! Missus got sick of you bringing the pox home, eh?

L: Anyway, moving on... what do you...

C:
And we sing the old school songs, don’t we? Don’t we, man? Don’t we, old boy?

L: No.

C:
Yes we do!

L: I don’t recall.

C:
Of course you recall. And I seem to remember you’ve got a rather pleasing baritone, unless I’m very much mistaken. So how about a few verses of something saucy, eh?