by Heide Goody
“Because we will reinvigorate and reunite a fragmented Europe, remind those Brexiteers what they are throwing away, and stop Article 50 in its tracks.”
Andy kissed the top of Michael’s head. “Well some of us have to go to work. If you’re flying out to fix things today, send me a postcard, yeah? Mind you, Eurovision isn’t until late spring, so I guess it’s safe to get two chops out of the freezer?” He glanced across at Heinz. “Or is it three? I’ll leave it with you, babe.”
Michael nodded absently as he filled out the registration form. “Done! Now all I need is a song and a band. Where should we start, Heinz?”
Heinz massaged his neck thoughtfully. “I know the answer to this. My gorgeous Liam. I’ve mentioned him I think?”
“Once or twice, yes. Quite graphically.”
“Liam and I are on a break at the moment, but we’ll be drawn back to each other’s arms before long. It is the magnetism, you know? It is raw, animal and so very … rude.” Heinz sighed and gazed wistfully into the middle distance. Discreetly, Michael coughed to bring him back. “Yes. Anyway, you would never guess who Liam’s aunt is.”
“No, you’re right,” said Michael. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Liam’s aunt is Aisling McQuillan. Isn’t that amazing?”
“And who is that?”
Heinz tapped the side of his nose and gave a playful smile. “I am about to let you into one of the biggest secrets of Eurovision. You know how Ireland won Eurovision three times, back in the day, yes? Well, all three songs were written by Aisling McQuillan. It won’t say that if you go and look them up of course, but secretly they were. She is Ireland’s secret weapon.”
“Secret weapon, eh?”
Two hours later, Michael’s stylish glass whiteboard was covered. Heinz had drawn a free-form mind map that looked like an explosion in a lollipop factory and Michael had created an orderly list. Michael reviewed his task list.
1 - Find and recruit Aisling McQuillan to write song
2 - Assemble band
3 - Take act to Geneva and persuade European Broadcasting Network to bring Eurovision forward.
4 - Unite Europe through the power of song.
5 - Stop the end of the world.
It was a good plan. It was a simple plan. What could go wrong?
Heinz wrapped up the phone call he was making. “Hey, good news,” he told Michael. “I found Aisling. We can go and meet her.”
“Where in Ireland does she live?”
“She doesn’t. There was a terrible confusion with royalties, tax and money laundering. You know how it is. Anyway, she can’t go back there. She’s running a goat farm near Athens.”
“Athens?”
“In Greece.”
“I know where it is.” Michael gave it some thought. “Well, that could work well for finding one of our other recruits.”
“Who are the other recruits?” asked Heinz.
“I have created an algorithm—”
“You are a slave to the rhythms, Michael.”
“An algorithm based on the personal characteristics of past European winners,” said Michael. “I found twenty five markers for Eurovision success, which I can cross-reference against certain sources I am able to access for the population of Europe.”
“Sources. Sounds not entirely legal,” beamed Heinz.
“If GCHQ and the French DGSI insist on having such weak cyber-security then they can only expect benign operatives such as myself to make good use of their data.”
“You are so naughty. I love it. What sort of markers did you find?”
“Ownership of a car with silver paintwork is one,” said Michael. “As is a history of phoning in to local radio shows. One of the strongest markers, however, is where people have been arrested for disturbing the peace by performing music.”
Heinz gave Michael a grave look. “I hope you are not mixing up cause and effect, Michael. It’s a question of whether that was before or after their Eurovision success. There’s many a Eurovision musician who’s been misunderstood when they tried to recreate their glory days for an ungrateful public. I should know this.”
Michael pushed aside that entirely reasonable point. The research was done now, and he would stick by it. “The statistics are reliable. The first person we need to look up is in Bulgaria. We can go there when we’ve met Aisling.”
“Perfect. We just have a small shopping list. Aisling lives a very simple life on her goat farm, so we should take her these small luxuries.”
Somewhere over the Atlantic
“Can I ask you a question, Grace?” Clovenhoof said to his neighbour in seat 27F.
Clovenhoof’s flight to the US on his Trump-stopping mission had been a perfectly entertaining one so far. He had ordered a paleo-kosher-halal meal at check-in and spent much of the early flight wondering what a Jewish-Muslim-caveman would be given to eat (carrots and grapes, it turned out). Afterwards, he ordered a vast quantity of spirit and liqueur miniatures from the drinks trolley and turned his drop-down tray into a combined tiny cocktail bar and equally tiny bowling alley, using a left over grape as a ball. Then he discovered the delights of the in-flight shop, which provided him with several hours of entertainment until the stewardess told him buying toy aeroplanes, snapping the wings off and giving them to random passengers with what she described as a “Seriously deranged look in your eyes, sir” was not on.
“Sure, Jeremy,” said Grace. She had been a delightful fellow traveller on the transatlantic flight: enjoying miniature bottle bowling, and the gift of a wingless toy plane in the spirit it was intended.
“Who is this Donald Trump guy?” asked Clovenhoof.
Grace was thoughtful for a moment. “Mrs Karnacki says he’s a spoilt little rich kid who never grew up. I know he’s very rich. He owns a lot of buildings and he’s built a lot more. And he was on that TV show where the people have to fight it out for the top job in his company. And now he wants to be President.”
“Okay,” said Clovenhoof, making notes on the back of a gin and grape stained napkin. “He wins the throne—”
“Election.”
“Right. He wins the election by fighting it out with the other claimants.”
“Hillary Clinton.”
“And that’s a … girl?”
“Sure,” said Grace, taking one of Clovenhoof’s remaining grapes and popping it in her mouth.
“And they fight with … what?” asked Clovenhoof, hoping the answer was “Damn big swords” or, even better, “Kangaroos and hand grenades”.
“The electoral college system,” said Grace.
“Okay,” said Clovenhoof, who didn’t know what an electoral college system was and feared that big swords, kangaroos and hand grenades wouldn’t play a part. “Explain.”
And so Grace explained while Clovenhoof ordered several packs of peanuts and drew various tortured faces on the individual nuts with his complimentary airline pen. There were phrases in Grace’s explanation like “indirect election”, “apportionment”, “Congressional district method” and “Twelfth Amendment.” Clovenhoof, despite appearances, was a quick learner and soon grasped the intricacies of the electoral system governing one of the largest democracies in the world.
“That’s bonkers,” he said.
“Bonkers?” said Grace.
“Mad. Crazy. Cuckoo,” said Clovenhoof. “So, a candidate could win more of the individual people’s votes and still not become President?”
“True,” said Grace.
“And if you were somewhere like – Wyoming, was it? – your vote is actually worth over three times as much as somewhere like New York.”
“I guess so. I might have to check with Mrs Karnacki about that.”
“And even if you and everyone in your state decided to vote for the elephant candidate—”
“The Republican.”
“—the electors you voted for could, if they wanted to, all give their own votes to other side.”
“Sur
e. But that would be naughty.”
“Oh, well, long as everyone knows it’s naughty.” Clovenhoof rolled his eyes. “So, big question, Grace: will this Trump geezer win?”
“No,” said Grace firmly.
“All right,” said Clovenhoof, very happy to hear that his world-saving mission might turn into a Stateside holiday at Michael’s expense. “Why not?”
“Because he is a racist and a sexist who says dumb and hurtful things.”
“I say dumb and hurtful things all the time,” said Clovenhoof.
“Are you trying to become President of the United States?”
“No.”
“He hates woman. He hates Mexicans. He hates African-Americans. That’s already over half the people who can vote. There’s no way he can win.”
Clovenhoof chuckled. “So, I take it you’ll be voting for this Hillary character, then?”
“I can’t,” said Grace.
“Why not?” said Clovenhoof.
“I’m only nine, Jeremy.”
For the remainder of the flight, while Grace watched movies and her parents snored beneath their eye masks, Clovenhoof completed two important jobs. The first was putting each of the horror-faced peanuts in its individual miniature spirits bottle prison, telling them in turn what their crime was, and why they shouldn’t be such a cry-baby about their just and eternal punishment. The second was finalising his plan of action. He had Donald J. Trump’s itinerary downloaded on his phone and a near limitless pot of cash in the form of Michael’s credit card. America was his oyster and Trump, it seemed, was the speck of dirt that he had to stop becoming its pearl.
As the plane touched down at Miami International Airport – with no wings snapping, no wheels flying off and no opportunity to use the big yellow emergency slide, for shame! – Clovenhoof regarded the three stage plan to stop Trump he had jotted on the napkin.
1 – Discredit Trump and his campaign.
2 – Convince him to step down for the sake of the planet (and Topless Darts on Ice).
3 – Terminate with extreme prejudice.
It was a good plan. It was a simple plan. What could go wrong?
Athens, Greece
Michael and Heinz quickly passed through Athens airport as they had only hand luggage. It was warmer than Birmingham by several degrees, and was almost pleasant as they stepped outside, although diesel fumes from an ancient Volvo idling at the kerb filled the air. It was the only vehicle in sight. Michael peered up and down the concourse to see if there might be an obvious place for alternative transport. There was nothing. Michael approached the rusting hulk’s driver, who leered through the open window.
“How much to drive us to Avlona?” Michael asked. He spoke impeccable Greek. One of the perks of being a former member of the angelic host was the ability to speak every language of the world impeccably, accentless, and with just a trace of smugness.
“Five hundred euros,” answered the driver promptly. “It is a tricky journey. Through the mountains. You must pay in advance.”
Michael stepped away and consulted briefly with Heinz, flicking a map up on his phone. “Sounds expensive, but I guess the route isn’t as straightforward as it looks on here.”
Heinz shrugged.
Michael turned back to the taxi with a sigh, peeled off some notes and climbed into the back. Heinz followed. He had barely closed the door when the taxi screeched away from the kerb. Heinz and Michael tumbled together across the back seat. They struggled upright, Michael scrabbling for his seatbelt. It was trapped, and he was unable to release it.
“Driver! I can’t get my seatbelt out. Could you stop please?”
The driver made no indication he had heard. There was a plastic partition separating the front from the back, but surely it wasn’t soundproof? Michael tried again.
“Driver! Please stop the car!”
There was no response. The driver tapped the steering wheel rhythmically; Michael realised he was wearing earphones. In horror he watched the driver raise his knees to the steering wheel to free up his hands, pull out his phone and change the music. No! He wasn’t just selecting a new tune; he was tapping away like he was engaged in a text conversation. Michael shuffled forward, bracing himself against the constant, violent swerving, and craned his neck . The driver was checking his Facebook feed and playing a video of cats falling off tables. The man’s shoulders shook with mirth. Michael banged on the partition, but went unheard. Michael raised his eyes and saw to his horror they were on the wrong side of the carriageway, with a truck bearing down on them. Michael hammered again and shouted as loud as he could. The truck sounded a huge air horn. The driver was oblivious to it all. He pulled a finger across his screen to watch the next video but fumbled his phone, dropping it into the footwell. As he leaned down to retrieve it, he tugged the steering wheel to the side, miraculously avoiding the oncoming truck.
In a frenzy, Michael connected his smartphone to the local phone provider, went onto Facebook, searched for the taxi driver from the name on the printed dashboard plate, sent him a friend request and, when his request was accepted seconds later, wrote on his timeline in big, shouty capitals: KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD! The taxi driver chuckled at that too, although not as much as he did at cat videos.
Michael spent the rest of the journey engaged in frantic prayer to an Almighty he knew on first name terms. Meanwhile Heinz took a nap. They were both slammed back to reality when the taxi slammed into another car, embedding itself firmly in its side. The taxi driver, clearly in the wrong, got out and started to bellow loudly at the driver of the other car. Michael and Heinz took the opportunity to get out of the taxi and stand on trembling legs.
“I wonder how far away we are from Avlona?” said Michael.
Their driver paused in his bellowing and turned to them. “This is Avlona.” He gave them a dismissive flick of his hand and went back to shouting and posturing.
“I didn’t see any mountains,” said Michael, starting to regain his composure. “In fact, would you believe that was only a thirty minute journey? It felt like much, much longer.”
Heinz gestured expansively. “Hey, look on the bright side. We’re here.”
Michael peered at the taxi meter through the passenger window. “We’ve been well and truly ripped off!”
The taxi driver reached inside his cab and retrieved a wheel brace. He thwacked it against his open palm as he walked towards the other driver.
“Come on!” said Heinz, pulling Michael away. “Let’s go and find Aisling.”
Michael double checked the address as they approached the building. The sun was setting, and in the low light it resembled many of its neighbours. It was low and white with a flat roof. Close up, he saw that it would be more accurately described as sheets of corrugated iron stacked into a rough cube and whitewashed. A grubby canopy extended perilously onto a pair of spindly props, a scrawny goat glaring at them from its shadow.
There was the sound of someone strumming a guitar and singing. It was a song about figs, apparently.
“Hello Aisling?” called Heinz. “It’s Heinz here!”
The guitar stopped. “I don’t know anyone called Heinz,” called a voice.
“I have pork scratchings and teabags,” said Heinz.
There was a clattering sound that could have been a guitar being thrown aside and the creak of corrugated iron.
“Old friend, Jesus, it’s grand to see you!” Aisling sprang from a gap and spread her arms wide. She was a wiry woman with an appearance that could be most kindly described as “weathered”. She had a rollup clamped between her teeth as she grinned at them.
“This is Michael,” said Heinz.
Aisling shook Michael’s hand vigorously.
“He’s gonna fix Europe, with your help,” said Heinz and unpacked the scratchings from his rucksack.
“Don’t put them where the goat can get at them,” warned Aisling.
“Is he from your goat farm?” asked Michael.
“What?” said Aisling. “This is the goat farm.”
“I see,” said Michael, not really seeing. “Do you have plans to expand at some point? One goat seems very limited for a farm.”
“It’s the only way to keep within the terms of the subsidy,” said Aisling. “The EU gives me money to prove I am limiting the environmental impact of farming. I submit the figures once a year, and they’re happy that my goat farm is low impact. If I double my stock they might withdraw funding, and then where would I be?”
“Where indeed?” said Michael, glancing over at the tin shack. “So has Heinz told you about our plan?”
“He has,” said Aisling, “and I think it’s grand, so. Who’s in the band?”
“We need to, er, pick them up,” said Michael. He glanced around at the silent street with its weed-strewn verges. “Is there somewhere around here we might get a room for the night? I’ll need to sort out some transport for the morning.”
Aisling beamed. “I can solve both of those problems for you. With me, lads!”
She led them both to the rear of her shack and Michael saw something whose shape and size was roughly equivalent to a VW camper van. It clearly wasn’t an actual vehicle though: there was a wheelbarrow partway up a ramp leading into the back, and the windows were crowded with vegetation.
“You’ll need to lend us a hand, boys,” said Aisling, as she trotted up the ramp and started loading large potted plants into the barrow. “These’ll be safe in the house for a few days, but they’re not gonna move themselves, now.”
“Is that cannabis?” asked Michael, stepping forward to steady the barrow.
“Sure,” said Aisling. “Just a little hobby. You boys can sleep in the back here tonight, and we can set off first thing, yeah?”
“How very rock and roll!” Heinz clapped with delight. “It’s a Eurovision tour bus!”
“You settle in,” said Aisling. “I’ll be taking Jezza to Maria’s so she can look after him while we’re gone.”