by Ben Elton
Riveting viewing.
Judy and Rosalie stood apart from the queue as one of the officers checked them in for their flight. There were, as in all airports, numerous television sets hanging from the ceiling and attached to the walls. Some offered flight information, others offered what could loosely be called ‘entertainment’: cable music video channels, local morning TV and interactive games.
Many years previously, it had been decreed by the moguls of media and marketing that the human race was so utterly devoid of originality and creative powers that it was incapable of getting through even the simplest activity without some electronically delivered stimulus. Hence, shopping malls were suddenly suffused with tinny renditions of classic pop songs, wafting hither and thither amongst the discarded litter, dried up fountains and utterly repulsive sculptures. It was possible for old people to stand for ever on escalators that had never worked and die to the sound of ‘Wonderful World’. Lifts, shops, even buses, all began to sing. When people rang up for mini-cabs they were forced to sit through fifteen minutes of commercial radio before being told that there was a three-day wait for cars at the present time. Noise joined the dazzling pot pourri of pollutants that the industrialised world was devising in order to make the fact of being alive ever more unpleasant.
Nor was it just aural ‘entertainment’ that was forced upon people who had previously been capable of doing their shopping without having to listen to orchestral arrangements of Beatles’ hits. Televisions began to appear everywhere. The logic was that, because people liked to watch the television in their living-rooms, then they would surely like to watch it in all other circumstances. Coaches, shops and particularly pubs and bars were invaded. The appearance of TVs in pubs was surely the cruellest blow of all, for a pub is above all a place of social intercourse. It evolved out of a natural human desire to go out, meet other people and talk to them. A telly has no place in a pub. People do not have beer-taps in their living-rooms. A telly utterly destroys all possibility of conversation, for it is a physical property of all televisions that the eye is inevitably drawn to them. Its hypnotic powers know no bounds. If a telly is on in a public place, people cannot avoid staring at it. The sound does not even have to be on. No matter how boring the programme, and no matter how interesting the conversation one is having at the time, the eye will slowly drift over to the television and have to be constantly dragged back. TVs can now be found in post offices, banks and police stations. Surely it is only a matter of time before they appear in operating theatres, which will mean a lot of wrong bits get cut off.
Handling the handlers.
Socially disastrous though these electronic intrusions usually are, they were good news for Rosalie, although she did not yet know it.
Judy had been waiting for his chance and now he saw it. One police person was checking them in, the other was momentarily transfixed by the silent broadcast of a morning shopping show being presented on a wall-mounted television nearby.
‘Hope the flight’s on time,’ Judy ventured.
‘Mmm,’ the policeman replied, his attention elsewhere.
‘I’ll bet the VR helmets on the plane don’t work,’ Judy mused.
‘Mmm,’ replied the distracted policeman.
‘Would it be OK if Rosalie and I were to jump across that empty check-in position and disappear through the rubber curtains on to the luggage belt?’ Judy asked in a bored voice.
‘Mmm,’ the policeman replied.
Fortunately Judy had squeezed Rosalie’s hand to get her attention, for she too had been staring at a TV set.
‘Thanks,’ said Judy. ‘Let’s go, Rosalie.’
And, handcuffed together though they were, they jumped across the check-in bay and pushed themselves through the rubber curtains.
‘What in the name of goodness is going on?’ Rosalie cried as they began to glide along the conveyor belt with all the luggage.
‘I don’t think now is the time to explain,’ Judy answered.
Up ahead of them, the baggage handlers were performing their duties as laid down by the airport authority. These consisted of flipping one catch open on every fourth bag, sprinkling red wine and bits of broken glass on everything and loosening one wheel on each baby carriage.
‘Airport cops behind us,’ Judy shouted at the baggage handlers.
He was pretty sure what their reaction would be, and he was right. The idea that the airport police had been set upon them yet again was a red rag to a bull for airport baggage handlers. They are notoriously easy to offend. Baggage handlers know that everybody hates them. They know that every individual passenger feels personally victimised by them, believing that their own particular bag has been deliberately held back. They know that everybody firmly believes the lengthy time it takes to get the bags to the carousels is caused by the handlers trying to decide what to steal. They know that the tatty, forlorn little unclaimed suitcase which seems to have been bolted to every carousel by the manufacturers is taken by the public as evidence that the handlers remove only one bag at a time from the aeroplanes and refuse to get another until that one has been claimed. All this the baggage handlers know and they do not like it. They believe it is the public who are the unreasonable and indeed immoral ones. They believe that the public deliberately fill any excess spaces left over after they have packed with lead ballast, in order to ensure that an adequate level of spinal injury is inflicted upon the handlers. They believe that it is the public who neglect to fasten their luggage properly, so that the bags explode in a flurry of dirty knickers on the conveyor belt. The handler is then expected to restuff them whilst all the while an inadequately wrapped granite boulder is bearing down upon him.
The public hates handlers and handlers hate the public. It is a universal truth and cannot be altered. If there is life elsewhere in space then it may be safely presumed that there are little green men and women exchanging horror stories about how their cases ended up in the wrong solar system.
‘What aliens must think of our planet when they visit I just don’t know,’ the little green creatures will declaim loudly to each other as they mill aimlessly around the baggage collection transporter rooms. ‘When we can’t even beam down a few damn cases from the mother ship.’
All this antagonism has led to a sullen touchiness on the part of baggage handlers worldwide. It was these feelings of persecution that Judy was attempting to exploit when he announced that the two figures emerging through the rubber curtains behind them were airport police. He had judged the situation well.
‘Right, that’s it,’ the handlers said to each other and turned off the conveyor belt. ‘Yet again, we’re being harassed by the company. Yet again, we’re being categorised as a bunch of thieving job’s-worths who have to be constantly spied upon in case we try to pinch a plane.’
And so a strike was called, which left the two Garda minders stuck on the stationary belt, struggling to follow Judy and Rosalie, whilst angry handlers expressed their antagonism to authority by heaping luggage in their way.
A not very alert security alert.
Outside in the arrivals hall alarm bells were ringing and police and soldiers had started to run around all over the place. This was all to the good, as far as Judy was concerned. For the airport, like all European airports, was on hair-trigger alert for terrorist attack. Every day, the authorities planned in meticulous detail where every soldier and every police person should run to the moment the alarms went off. They held a full dress-rehearsal once a week with smoke and blank bullets and everything. There were also regular false alarms which occurred when old ladies forgot to inform the authorities that they had packed a small handbag mounted mortar for personal protection. All this training meant that when the alarms went off, the soldiers and police at the airport operated with machine-like efficiency … only, however, if there was a terrorist attack underway. If, for instance, two handcuffed people were trying to slip quietly out of the airport together, the activities of the security forces were not
merely irrelevant but actively counter-productive.
‘This way,’ Judy instructed Rosalie and, jumping off the conveyor belt, he pulled her towards the next set of rubber curtains along the line.
‘But that’s back into the check-in area,’ Rosalie protested.
‘I know,’ said Judy, trying not to resent her for acting as if he was an idiot. ‘Do what I tell you and we may get out of this
OK?’
Rosalie had nothing to lose.
‘OK,’ she said.
‘Good. Now when we go through the curtains, hold up your arm so that everybody can see the cuffs, right? And shout out that it’s all right, you’ve got me and everybody should be calm. All right?’
‘But…’ Rosalie attempted to interject.
‘Look! You’re a tough, beautiful Irish girl, right? I’m an American nerd. In terms of bluffing our way out of Dublin airport, who do you think should play the good guy?’
Rosalie could see the logic. She dragged him through the rubber curtains, emerging behind an Aer Lingus check-in girl who was in the process of telling everybody to be calm. The whole hall was a mass of confusion.
‘Garda Special Branch,’ Rosalie shouted, holding their arms aloft. ‘It’s fine. I have him.’ And with that she thrust herself forwards past the Aer Lingus desk and into the astonished line of travellers. For a moment the crowd did not part, and Rosalie experienced a split second of panic as she thought the bluff had failed.
‘Make way now! Clear a path,’ she shouted, pushing on, dragging Judy with her. Rosalie need not have worried. The momentary hesitation on the part of the crowd in front of her was merely due to the fact that, even during a terrorist attack, the first instinct of a person in an airport queue is to protect their place. The nagging suspicion that everything that happens is a ploy by some other traveller to push in dies hard. Fortunately, Rosalie’s natural ability to command and the inherent dignity of her bearing won through.
‘Get out of the fucking way, all of you! I’ve got a killer here,’ she screeched, flailing her free arm about and the people parted. They did more than part, they cheered and clapped. Judy had again judged the psychology of the situation to perfection. The sight of a pretty little local girl with flashing green eyes capturing such a nasty looking foreign weasel of a man filled the crowd with a sense of romance and pride.
‘Death to all papists!’ Judy shouted in his broadest Southern US accent. ‘The Elitest Church of Christ the Crew-cut is the one true faith.’
Judy knew that Ireland is a country that has suffered more than most from religious bigotry over the years, and he reasoned that people would be pretty happy to see a bigot busted, particularly a Protestant one. He reasoned correctly. How they cheered as their brave girl cop escorted the evil zealot across the arrivals hall. People from other queues heard the commotion and walked across to see what the fuss was about. In a few moments, a large crowd was celebrating the victory of law and order over bigotry and violence.
‘OK, let me through, this is isn’t a freak show,’ Rosalie shouted as the crowd pressed in. Judy began to regret inflaming the crowd, but help was on its way.
‘Get back there, sharp now!’
The voice was that of an army sergeant who, seeing that a capture had been made, was following statutory instructions to facilitate an orderly arrest. Before they knew it, Rosalie was escorting Judy up an avenue of soldiers who, whilst grinning broadly, were holding back the cheering and rapidly growing crowd. People usually felt so helpless in the face of terrorism, that to see it temporarily vanquished was a massive thrill for everybody at the airport, soldiers and public alike.
‘Good on you, you little darling,’ they shouted. ‘Hang the bastard.’
As Rosalie and Judy arrived at the exit the sergeant marched up to them. He stamped and saluted in his proudest manner.
‘Well done, Sergeant,’ Rosalie said. ‘You moved very quickly.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the proud sergeant replied, ‘and on behalf of the lads, may I congratulate you on nabbing the little shit.’
‘That’s very kind, Sergeant. Thank you. Now if you’d just hold this door for a moment while I get my man here into the Special Branch car, I’d be grateful.’
And whilst the army held back the crowd Rosalie and Judy went out and caught a taxi.
Chapter Sixteen
The loneliest girl in the world
Bitchin’ Pitchin’.
‘OK, it’s like this,’ said Nathan, attempting to sound dynamic. He was back in Plastic Tolstoy’s office, perched on the very edge of the bottomless pit which Plastic called a couch, nervously gripping his empty soda glass and making his pitch. Nathan was at the crunch point. That point which must be faced in every pitch. The point when the pitcher knows that he or she can prevaricate no longer and that the actual idea must be stated. It is always a nerve-racking moment, because so often it is the last moment before ignominious failure. Nathan, therefore, like all pitchers, had put it off for as long as possible, spending a full ten minutes lucidly repeating the principles of his original brief.
‘You don’t want a story that slags off the greenies,’ he had said in about six different ways. ‘The greenies hold the high ground, we have to accept that. What you want your story to do is acknowledge the moral position of the Environmentalists, whilst showing the Claustrosphere company in a great light. Right?’
Plastic Tolstoy was losing patience.
‘Nathan. I know this. I told you,’ he replied testily. ‘You think I’m renting you a house off Sunset to be told back what I told you already? Is that how things get done in England, huh? Jesus, excuse me! No wonder you guys lost an empire.’
‘Yes, yes, no, fine. Just re-stating our position,’ Nathan agreed hastily. ‘You know, checking we’re both coming from the same place.’
‘Well, don’t because we ain’t. You’re coming from being poor, and I’m coming from being rich, which means you have to impress me, which, I would like to tell you, so far is not happening. No impact is being made. I am looking around my office here and it is an impact-free zone. There is no zing in the air, no pow! No ideas bouncing off the walls. All there is, in fact, is nothing, and nothing, as the dead white guy said, comes of nothing. Certainly not enough to justify the exorbitant amounts of money —For just one moment, Nathan saw red.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, you smug bastard, will you shut your stupid face for a minute so I can explain my idea!!’
It was out before he could even believe he’d said it. Nathan went white with fear. He had shouted at Plastic Tolstoy. He had called Plastic Tolstoy an arrogant bastard. He had told Plastic Tolstoy to shut his stupid face. It is sometimes said that when a person is dying their whole life passes before their eyes. When you die in Hollywood your whole future passes before your eyes. The beach house you won’t own, the waiters who will not be crawling to you, the twenty-seven page profiles which will not be being commissioned about you for Vanity Fair. All this and more passed before Nathan’s eyes as the realisation of what he had done sank in on him and the dark shadow of Shepherds Bush fell upon his soul. (Shepherds Bush being that place in West London where what was left of the once mighty BBC still lived.) A dark, shadowy place of plastic cups, underfunded projects and memos querying expense claims for a taxi ride and a sandwich. This was what Nathan was going back to and he would never see the Californian filtered sunshine, the swimming pools, or the money ever again.
Then Nathan noticed something strange. Plastic Tolstoy was still talking.
‘I don’t know, maybe I’m the only idiot in this town who pays for writers to tell me what he just said. Maybe it’s a special talent I have… “that Tolstoy”, they all say behind my back, “he pays for an echo”. They’re laughing at me . .
Nathan realised that the man had not even heard his outburst. Plastic Tolstoy had just kept right on going, happily developing his little comic theme, wallowing in the glorious sound of his own voice. As far as Plastic Tolstoy was con
cerned, Nathan only even existed when Plastic wanted him to.
‘OK, so we’ve established what I want,’ said Plastic, having finally exhausted the particular well of sarcasm from which had been drawing. ‘Now maybe we can find out what you have.’
‘OK,’ said Nathan, momentarily emboldened by his close shave. ‘Mother Earth are always attacking the Claustrosphere Company because they claim that Claustrosphere people are hastening the end of the world. What our movie has to say is that Claustrosphere want exactly the same things that all those greenies want, they just happen to be a bit more responsible about it —‘
‘This I know!’ said Plastic, but Nathan barged on before Plastic could get going again.
‘The biggest mystery about the Mother Earth lot is where they get the money from, right? I mean, I’ve seen these people, they have limos, incredible tasting potatoes, everything. Some shadowy philanthropist is clearly bank-rolling them, but he just won’t take the credit. Well, how about this? How about we take it! We say in our movie that it’s Claustrosphere that is providing the funding! .. . I mean, what a great twist, right? All the time you’ve got these greenies attacking the very people who are paying for them to do it! But the Claustrosphere people just keep on paying, because they believe in the future of the Earth more than anybody and think Environmental protest is important.’
Plastic Tolstoy stared at Nathan and for once he did not speak. He was thinking. Nathan blethered on, as writers do when met by producer silence.
‘I mean it is the greatest plot twist, don’t you think?’ he said, trying not to sound desperate. ‘Like all through the picture, the greenies are trying to kill the head of Claustrosphere — we’ll fictionalise him, of course — meantime, they’re blessing this mysterious guy who makes it possible for them to continue the fight. Then at the end, they realise it’s the same person! That Claustrosphere is part of the Green Movement! That’s when they learn the error of their ways. I mean, irony or what? You’ve got to admit it.’