She cleared her voice.
Thatcher’s children!
Got no education,
Got no hope,
Destined for a life on the dole!
“She’s ever so keen on all this poetry stuff,” whispered her husband. “I don’t really get it myself. I prefer stuff that rhymes.”
The council estate press-gang continued to trudge up and down their concrete pen, glum-faced – the proverbial captive audience.
Trapped in the Tory vice,
Exploited at every turn,
Who will liberate the downtrodden youth?
Not television, not capitalism, so whom?
“She can bang on a bit,” Spott-Hythe confided. “Oooh, I haven’t told you about my secret plan yet!”
“What’s that then?”
“I’m going to make Kent’s first ice-wine!”
“Interesting…”
“We have an exposed hillside that always catches a severe frost in December. I planted it with Chardonnay three years ago and this winter I’m determined to pick the crop, frozen.”
“Isn’t ice-wine production quite labour intensive?”
“Yes, it’s fiddly work. One has to check the vineyards every day for weeks, plucking out all the grapes that go rotten. Then, when you get the first really cold night, it’s all hands on deck! Every frozen grape must be picked individually at the coldest time, just before dawn. Can’t see this lot being up for it…”
Not your church, not your shopping mall,
Not your Playstation, nor your porno mags,
The womb! The womb of Gaia! Hallelujah!
For only she can truly liberate!
“Oh, marvellous darling!” called Spott-Hythe, clapping his hands.
“Yes, very contemporary,” I agreed.
Clueless hippy lunatics they may have been, but I knew a commercial opportunity when I saw one. I agreed to buy half the Spott-Hythes’ sparkling wine production on the spot and convinced them to rechristen the wine Cuvée Hope. On my return to Gatesave, I convinced the PR team to write a press release boasting that we had created the first English wine that liberated the long-term unemployed from a life of crime.
It was a coup. The Guardian wrote a huge feature about Cuvée Hope, complete with pictures of Mrs Spott-Hythe and her team of underprivileged workers, all looking suitably downtrodden. We sent plenty of stock to stores in areas with high concentrations of bleeding heart liberals and I was able to sell the wine at double the price I had originally intended – a feel-good fair trade premium, if you like.
The Spott-Hythes were delighted, particularly Mrs Spott-Hythe, who had been elevated locally to the status of warrior-priestess, with a two-page spread in the Ashford & Maidstone Times. By way of thanks, she arranged for a van to deliver a pruned-back Pinot Noir vine from the estate, rather inelegantly planted in a dustbin, with a note saying ‘all must share of Gaia’s placenta’. I positioned it just outside the front door in Little Chalfont where it thrived, thanks to Fistule watering it with the nutritious juice drained from his kitchen composting tank.
The Head of Execution even gave me a backhanded compliment – in the form of a back-handed slap to the head as I sat at my desk – snarling, “Tasty bit of PR work there, Hart. Hope you’re not turning into a bloody communist? Ha!”
Who’d have guessed my first listing at Gatesave would be an English wine and a rip-roaring success? Despite my aversion to win-win situations, this was one – the supplier, the customer, the Gatesave shareholders and the press all loved it. But not as much as yours truly.
I had the hang of this game and it was time to set my sights even higher.
3.1
The New World
My mouth was dry after all the talking. I was tired too. The little moth was no longer flitting around the lampshade – quite sensibly it must have gone to bed. I glanced at my watch. It had just gone two thirty in the morning.
“I need some water.”
My interrogators considered me, unsympathetically.
“And I need the toilet too.”
This might be my chance to escape. They couldn’t refuse me a comfort break, surely? They’d have to escort me to the bathroom and I was sure I could trip the big chap over and make a run for it.
I heard the man behind me move. I turned to see him walk past me, across the room to the closet. He opened the doors, revealing a tiny bathroom containing a sink and a chemical toilet. He smirked.
“You can drink from the tap,” growled the seated man. “Be quick.”
Bugger. There was no escape. I walked into the closet and pulled the doors closed behind me. Between me, the toilet and the basin, there was barely enough room to turn around. There was no light switch either, the only illumination came from the crack between the doors. A loo roll was perched on a nail in the wall. I lifted the plastic lid of the chemical toilet and started peeing loudly. God, I was tired. I needed a pick-me-up. Frankly, I needed a drink, too.
Of course! I had my little travel-stash of Madame Joubert’s. I felt in my jacket pocket and there was the old shoe-polish tin. There was only a tiny bit left – I’d been meaning to refill it. I’d have to use water from the sink. I finished peeing and reached for the loo roll.
“Ooops. Made a bit of a mess in here. Sorry. I’ll just mop up,” I called.
I heard a sigh from the room but there was no other reply. There was no plug in the basin so I pulled off a wad of toilet paper and stuffed it into the plughole, then I turned on the tap and let some water run into the basin. I eased the lid off the shoe-polish tin and poured the remaining Madame Joubert’s into the water. It looked to be about one dose, although it was difficult to tell in the half-light. I used the tin as a scoop to drink from the basin.
“What you doing in there?” demanded the seated man.
I could see the shadow of the security guy under the door. “Nearly done.” I stuffed the wet tin back into my pocket just as the big man swung the closet doors wide open. He frowned at me and inspected the floor. My two seated interrogators had turned to look – they didn’t seem terribly impressed either.
I manoeuvred my way out of the closet, pushed the doors shut and retook my seat. The big man walked slowly back to the door, massaging his neck. It must have been painful standing for as long as that, I thought happily. I could feel my head clearing and a warm glow in my stomach as Madame Joubert started to do her work.
“Let’s carry on, shall we.” said the male interrogator. It was an order, not a question.
“We want to understand what happened in South Africa, Felix,” said the woman. “Our records indicate you went there at very short notice for just a few days. One of our sources even has you linked with some kind of terrorist attack.”
“Ah, no. I can understand the confusion but that’s very easily explained.”
“Then please do.”
I took a deep breath.
***
“Wine! Wine! Where’s the fucking wine team?”
My fellow buyers all jumped as Jim Colt’s dulcet tones boomed across the trading floor. George Bolus leapt to his feet, his gormless gammon face writhing in an attempt to look dynamic, while slimy Timmy Durange gave a cowardly little grimace over his monitor. Joan sighed and swore under her breath.
“Where’s bloody Hocky Cocks?” he shouted. He sounded unhappy and it was odds-on that we were in for a good hiding. “Hocky Cocks!”
“Here I am Jim,” called Patricia Hocksworth, our Manager, running towards the office as fast as her comfortable, pear-shaped body could carry her. “Team!” she called over her shoulder, “Follow me! Jim wants a word!”
He wants more than a word, Trisha, I thought. He wants blood. So long as it was hers, or someone else’s, that was fine by me.
The four of us followed Trisha at a semi-jog past the rows of desks. The office hum had quietened in anticipation and a sea of muted grins followed our progress to Colt’s office. A couple of the more oikish supply chain boys shook t
heir heads in mock pity.
“Good luck Blancmange!” whispered one to Durange, making a throat-cutting gesture. Timmy gave his peculiar half-angry, half-embarrassed grimace and lolloped on.
We entered the Head of Margin’s office and lined up along one side of his table.
“Don’t sit down.” He held up a large, A3 piece of paper covered in numbers. “October’s profit and loss statement. Anyone know why I might be ever-so-slightly fucking pissed off by this particular document?” He raised his eyebrows and rattled the sheet in Trisha’s face. “I’ll give you a clue. It’s to do with the word ‘profit’.”
Trisha’s mouth opened and closed as she tried to summon an answer.
“Hocky Bollocks? Hello? Anyone at home?”
“We’ll re-double our efforts sir,” slimed Durange. “I have a new Bordeaux wine that will make a market-beating margin…”
“Shut it Freaky, I’m talking to your boss,” barked Colt, without taking his eyes off the floundering Trisha.
“Sorry Jim, we’re… having a challenging time with the exchange rates…”
“Fuck me, does anyone have a clue how to make money round here?” He looked at each of us in turn.
Red-faced Trisha appeared on the verge of tears. Durange stared down, looking like a thrashed puppy. Joan stood motionless, a faint shit-smelling expression on her face. Bolus hopped from foot to foot, dying to blurt out an incisive commercial fact, if only he could think of one.
“What the fuck are you doing, Bolus?” Colt spat, pointing at Bolus’s twitching feet. “Are you trying to cha cha cha your way out of your piss-poor profit performance?”
“Ah…” spluttered Bolus, “it’s like this, Jim.”
Colt’s face darkened. If there was one thing he hated, it was an insignificant junior squit calling him by his first name. “No. It’s like this, Bolus you cretin,” he thundered, frantically waving the sheet around. “Australian wine – margin below target by four percentage points.” He looked up at Bolus. “Four whole fucking percentage points! What the fuck are you actually doing with your suppliers on your expensive overseas trips, you spunk-stained fucking excuse for a buyer? Tickling their cocks and blowing them a fucking price increase?”
“Ah… it’s the exchange rates… the Aussie dollar has strengthened… grape prices have increased hugely… and… erm…”
“Oooh oooh, mister supplier,” cut in the Head of Margin, eyes wild, his head just inches from the hapless Bolus. “Please let me tongue your fucking anus! I’m so sorry to hear about your money problems, please let me soothe your pain with a reach-around!”
Bolus stopped, mortified, his usually ham-hued face now pale in the office light. There was a moment of silence.
The Head of Margin looked at each of us in turn. “And? And? Any fucking solutions or just more fucking problems?”
I decided this might be the moment for a well-polished Hart intervention. Carpe diem and all that. “Well, the rand is very weak sir. If we bought more South African wine we could enhance our margin significantly.”
Colt stared at me for a few seconds. “Fuck. Me. A buyer who might just know how to fucking buy. Halle-fucking-lujah!” He wasn’t smiling – the Head of Margin rarely did – but I sensed I had pleased him. He looked down at his sheet once more.
“The only countries that have improved their fucking performance are Germany…” he ran his finger down the column of figures, “thirty percent up and an improved margin too… and Portugal, also improved by fifteen percent.” He looked up at me. “That’s you isn’t it?”
I nodded humbly. A series of cracking promotions on Pink Priest, courtesy of the generous funding package from sexy-but-distant Sandra, plus a cheeky little October discount on Port had sent my sales line soaring.
“Right. You,” he pointed at me aggressively, finger stabbing into my chest. “You’re the buyer of South African wine, right?”
Bolus, who was actually the buyer for South Africa, bobbed up and down, mouth closed, making muted whale-like calls from his throat.
“Er… actually George Bolus is the South African wine buyer. He’s due to visit in a couple of weeks,” piped up Trisha.
“Shit hello? Is anyone under the impression this is a fucking committee meeting?” snarled Colt. “I’ve just explained that golden bollocks here is the South African wine buyer. He’s going to go to South Africa and he’s going to buy a fucking shit load of gorgeous South African wine at a very low price. Then he’s going to sell it, in our stores, at a very lovely fucking high price. That’s how you make profit. Remember profit?”
He shook his sheet at Trisha and looked at each of us once more. “Does anybody have any problems? Any doubts, issues, little fucking queries, anything whatsoever, about the efficacy of this plan?” Everybody, myself included, remained absolutely still and silent. “Then why, in God’s cocking name, are you still standing in my fucking office?”
We filed out and returned to our desks.
“Well done Felix,” said Hocksworth, clapping me on the back. I’ll give Trisha her due – she was never down for long. Must be something to do with being battered relentlessly with lacrosse sticks between the ages of four and twenty-one.
“I shan’t let you down Trisha,” I replied. “I already have some ideas on how we can spruce up the South African wine range. I think we can all agree it’s a touch moribund.”
I heard an angry snort behind me and looked around. Bolus’s face had regained its livid, ham-like colour and he was smarting badly.
“It’s not really fair on George, though,” I suggested.
“Now Felix, you heard what Jim said. I think moribund, although harsh, is probably right and I’m sure George agrees a review is overdue.”
“Maybe I could… no, it doesn’t matter.”
“What, Felix?”
“Well, I’m loathe to let the area go, when there are so many exciting things happening, but maybe I could offer George my Eastern European area to look after? Romania, in particular, is so dynamic at the moment.”
“Felix! That is a very constructive idea. It makes perfect sense from a resourcing perspective too.”
“I don’t want Eastern Europe,” called Bolus, panic rising in his voice.
“Don’t be such a grump George. I think it’s an excellent idea. Felix, well done! And congratulations on your first Southern Hemisphere country. I’m sure you’ll have a very productive trip.”
By Christ, I thought, I shall! No more grey November afternoons tramping around the lower Danube with only a lard-infused pudding and a syphilitic whore to keep me warm come nightfall. The sun-kissed winelands of Stellenbosch beckoned, Table Mountain rising majestically to the west as I tossed a gigantic steak on the fire. Beautiful women of every race and colour, pert breasts barely covered in skimpy beachwear, hanging off my arms and giggling at my every comment. By God, I had made it!
“I’ll have to make it a flying visit, Trisha. I have my weekly Minstrel of Wine lecture every Wednesday and they forbid anyone to miss a single session.”
“That gives you six days to find some fabulous wine. You can do it, Felix!”
“Leave it with me, Trisha. And you’ll love Moldova, George,” I reassured Bolus, as we arrived back at our desks. “They call it Europe’s new wine horizon you know. I’m quite jealous, actually.”
“Fuck off, Hart,” muttered Bolus, in a small defeated voice.
***
Two weeks later, after a deep Champagne-fuelled sleep, I adjusted the well-upholstered business-class seat to an upright position and the pilot announced our final approach to Cape Town.
I stretched and smiled at a passing member of the flight crew, who gave me a wink as she strode down the aisle, her tight fitting white blouse as crisp and spotless as at our departure, ten hours earlier. It had been a very pleasant flight and the hostesses – members of a profession that I respect enormously – had been exceptional in their generosity with the Veuve Clicquot.
I had eve
n received a verbal invitation to a crew party the following evening at the Table Bay Hotel which, given the fantastic talent on show, was likely to be a very long and pleasant night.
Upon landing I breezed past the long, grumpy line of economy-class passengers and strode to the front of the immigration queue. I made a mental note to fly business class, if not first class, for the remainder of my career. Quite frankly it would be an outrage if a man in my position were expected to suffer queues, limited leg room and indifferent sparkling wine, ever again.
“Business or pleasure?” enquired the immigration official, her beautiful face accentuated by braided hair coiled into an elegant bun.
“Just business, unfortunately,” I grinned back. Like hell, I thought. If I wasn’t tupping a gorgeous African maiden at least every other night, this would be a tragically under-optimised trip.
“Well, enjoy our beautiful country anyway,” she smiled mischievously, stamping my passport.
3.2
Van Blerk
I’m usually first to wake, but air crew are highly trained professionals with more advanced body clocks than we mere mortals. So it was that my new-found partner slipped out of bed while I was still fast asleep, and was hitching a dark, freshly ironed skirt over her superb derrière by the time I stirred.
“Cheerio Felix, see you in business class sometime.” She blew me a kiss and strutted out, trailing her little wheelie case. The door clicked shut.
It was eight a.m., which meant I’d had barely three hours’ sleep, but I had to be on the road right away. I had a vital meeting in Robertson, an important winemaking town on the far side of the Hottentots Holland Mountains.
I rolled out of bed, feeling just a touch fuggy-headed. But I was clear on one thing, I needed fresh supplies of Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel. I was down to my last couple of doses, which I had smuggled with me in a hollowed-out toothbrush. I wasn’t sure of the ingredients, but anything that helpful had to be illegal, and spending my first big buying trip in a holding cell at Cape Town International with a bunch of Congolese crack addicts would have looked bad on my résumé.
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