‘OK,’ he started – when they were both tucked up beneath their sequinned shrouds – ‘what I’ve been doing is looking into my political crystal ball. So this part of the book will document the political situation in Britain by the middle of this century...’
Sandra regarded him with suspicion and then looked as though she was about to speak, possibly to remind him that she hadn’t actually agreed to be a sounding-board for his lecture. But she didn’t speak. Maybe she thought it wasn’t worth it. And Brian began.
‘Well, the politics of Britain, mid-century, have to be seen within the context of the “new order”, which started in 2030, when Europe – with Britain included – went into administration and was bought out by China...’
‘What?!’
‘Yes, in that year, China not only acquired the whole of this continent at a knock-down price, but it also acquired the proprietary rights to the European Commission – and the facility to dissolve the European Parliament. Which, of course, it lost no time in doing. Even though this institution wasn’t and never had been in any way democratic, it was still pretending it was, and even that was too much for the Chinese. So it was junked overnight.’
‘Brian...’
‘Now, what this meant was that central control from Europe – albeit by the Chinese and not by a load of Caucasian tossers – was now so blatantly obvious that national governments within Europe couldn’t keep up the pretence of having any relevance any more, and within months they had all been disbanded. So-called national democracy and so-called national determination, which had both been presented as realities for years, were now exposed for what they really were: chimeras, and fraudulent chimeras at that, sustained at great cost by the national political elites of each country to justify their own existence – and to keep their peoples in their place. But now all that was gone. And in Britain, Lords reform turned into Lords removal, and the Commons were dragged off as well.’
Sandra tried to interrupt at this point, but Brian was not to be stopped.
‘So, politics in Britain, by mid-century, is all about local politics. There’s no national government any more, but just County Council type government, local administrations dealing with the affairs of the counties and of the major cities. Because, as you can well imagine, the Chinese don’t want to be farting around with that sort of stuff, and they’re quite happy to leave it all to the natives. They can happily bumble along on their own at that level, and Beijing couldn’t give a damn.’
At this point of the proceedings, Sandra made her first mistake. She engaged with Brian’s tale.
‘So what’s happened to the political parties? Have they gone too?’
‘Yes and no. Some of them have gone, but some still remain, albeit not in quite the same form.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, for example, that the Conservative Party was long ago subsumed into UKIP – of course – and UKIP is now the primary political party in the country. Although they’re not called UKIP anymore. You see, being the ultimate pragmatists that they are, and recognising the state of the country, they decided to rename themselves. And sensing also that, because of the state of the country, nobody was in the mood to party any more, they decided, at the same time, to drop that “party” bit of their title. So UKIP became UKID, which stands for “United Kingdom In Decline”. And, in fact, “UKIDing” has now found its way into popular speech and means: “telling it like it is” – or “not being devious”...’
‘You’re kidding...’
‘No. UKIDing. And then, of course, there was the Labour Party...’
‘Don’t tell me it was subsumed into the Socialist Workers’ Party.’
‘No. It just disappeared – when Ed Balls became its leader and applied some of his and Gordon Brown’s economic thinking to its own finances – and, as a result, it became insolvent within weeks. They had to close it down.’
‘So, no socialists any more?’
‘Yes. There is a party of the Left. But, frankly, it’s not much more than a fringe party.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘The Milli-Band of Brothers.’
‘After David or Ed?’
Brian gave his wife a quizzical look.
‘After Millicent Martin. You know. From that David Frost programme, That Was The Week That Was. She was a very committed socialist...’
Sandra smiled, probably realising just how much she’d been sucked into all this nonsense. And before she had any sort of chance to think about extricating herself, Brian carried on.
‘The Lib Dems went, of course. They became so few in number that they were no longer a viable species. And, indeed, there were rumours of in-breeding, with more and more of them looking uncannily like Danny Alexander. Even the women. Whereas... the Greens survived. Although, in the process, they became the Blues, when they finally realised just how futile it was to try and maintain any sort of decent environment. In fact, they didn’t just survive, but they now do quite well, because so many people can identify with their downbeat tone. And the English Defence League is still around, albeit it’s increasingly relinquishing politics in favour of military operations – now that Britain has no official military any more. I mean, they were down to a few tanks and two parked-up aircraft carriers by the time the Chinese arrived. And once they had arrived, they shut up shop completely. So anyway, the EDL is more a sort of unofficial Home Guard than a political force, and you’re more likely to see them stuffing bayonets into sandbags than giving speeches – or causing riots for that matter. And anyway, as well as all those parties that do still participate in county politics, there are an awful lot of independents, or “warlords” as they are now known. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that warlords are now in control of most counties and cities in Britain, either through the ballot box or despite the ballot box. And that, of course, depends on whether the ballot box delivered them what they wanted...’
‘So, Britain is a bit like Afghanistan by mid-century?’
‘Yes. Only with more booze.’
‘But this lack of a central government; what does it mean for the Union? And for the whole of the United Kingdom? You know, is there still a United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland?’
‘Good question. And the short answer is no; because, to start with, the Chinese sold Wales to the Japanese, who, learning that it was available, wanted to use it for scientific research. Of course, they got a bit of a surprise when they realised what they’d bought, and the guys at Greenpeace just couldn’t stop laughing. But anyway, Wales is now just a province of the Japanese, and, I might say, more or less ignored by them for most of the time. Just like it’s ignored by most everybody else. So no great change really... And then, having got rid of that bit, the Chinese flogged Northern Ireland to their mates in South Korea – or “Samsung” as it’s now known...’
‘Eh?’
‘Well, there was a very unfortunate accident in the northern half of the Korean Peninsula. So unfortunate, that South Korea, as it was then, became an island nation. And, as they didn’t want to be reminded of the annihilation of their northern brethren all the time, they renamed themselves. And, for their new name, they adopted the moniker of their principal sponsor...’
‘And what do they do with Northern Ireland?’
‘Use it for landfill. They generate a helluva lot of rubbish in Samsung.’
‘Yes. And I suppose you’re now going to tell me that the Chinese got rid of Scotland as well.’
‘Oh no. Scotland was very different. To start with, it left the Union before the Chinese arrived. Mr Salmond finally got his way. There was a referendum. He won it, and Scotland became an independent nation. It even changed its name – to recognise its biggest investor... well, no, its biggest benefactor, in that he kept the place afloat...’
‘You don’t mean...?’
‘Yes. Scotland became “Trumpland”. They even changed the flag from a white cross on a blue background to a floating white
bouffant on a blue background. The saltire became the “salt-hair”...’
Sandra smothered a giggle but Brian ignored her and just carried on.
‘Of course, it didn’t work. England imposed an embargo on the export of Mars Bars to Trumpland, and within twelve months they’d had another referendum and they wanted the Union to be reinstated. And it was. And by the way, as they still produce all the world’s best whisky, I can’t see the Chinese ever wanting to get rid of them. Even though there’s been quite a few problems with Glasgow. In fact...’
‘Brian,’ interrupted Sandra abruptly, ‘how, on a scale of nought to ten, would you rate my cooperation? And how, on that same scale, would you rate my forbearance?’
‘You’ve had enough?’
‘An elegant sufficiency, my love.’
‘You’re taking the piss...’
‘I’m taking the piss? What the hell have you been doing for the last few minutes? And anyway, I got involved, didn’t I? And I even enjoyed it. Or, at least, bits of it. So watch it. Particularly if you want me to do it again...’
‘You would?’
Sandra looked down her nose and in her eyes there was a wicked glint.
‘I might.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I might.’
‘Promise?’
‘I just said I might.’
‘But...’
‘Brian, don’t push your luck.’
Brian looked down and spoke to his lap.
‘Right. I’ve got the message. But in that case, as regards another matter entirely, would I be pushing my luck if I suggested...’
At which point in his humble supplication there was a huge rumbling snore. Their next-door companion had clearly just gone to sleep.
Brian didn’t even bother to complete his question. He just smiled at Sandra as she smiled back at him. And before she bid him a fond goodnight, she said just one last time ‘I might’, but then followed this with the words: ‘But only in a room with proper walls’.
Brian nodded his assent. He understood completely. And, in any event, maybe the ruddy beds were made of cardboard as well...
3.
At three o’clock in the morning, Brian was still having thoughts about cardboard, and wishing desperately that there was more than just one thickness of it between him and reception. If there were more, he would not now be listening to the heated exchange between an indeterminate number of the locals, who may have been arguing about the authenticity of the temple ruins or the state of the swimming pool – or the likelihood that Monet ever toyed with the idea of pointillism... But he would never know. Their exchange was all in foreign, and, although it went on through the night and at an ever increasing intensity, he was still ignorant of its theme as the morning approached – and then arrived. And he felt as knackered as hell.
Thank God, he thought, that he and Sandra were leaving this place. And thank him as well, he thought, for the fact that not all the hotels in Morocco were built out of cardboard. Or so he sincerely hoped...
He also hoped that today would see a marginal improvement in his experience of Morocco, and something more than just a marginal improvement in the weather. For it was now not raining, albeit the sky was still overcast. And, of course, there was still that gauntlet of ribby ribbon development to run before they made it to the plain. And yes, that was yet another little barrier to his reaching that goal of improvement; they were starting their birding on the same bleak gravel-plain on which they’d stood just the previous day. Although not at quite the same spot. Because their specific destination on this plain today was its gigantic, uncontrolled, completely disgusting rubbish dump.
There were birds here, you see. Birds like black storks and stone curlews, which, unlike delicate little creatures such as Brian, are impervious to the sheer horror of such a terrible abomination. Shit, back in Britain, we can be a bit careless with our dumping, and in a poor country, what else do you do? But even so, to use a wild stretch of plain as an over-ground lavatory, where all manner of stuff is just dumped and then abandoned, is simply awful. Especially as much of this stuff is plastic and the sort of plastic that gets blown by the wind. The dump was continually being spread over a wider and wider area, and litter was evident for miles around, and “witches’ knickers” were evident even further afield: blue and white plastic bags, caught forever in the twigs of faraway bushes, there to flap around until the end of time or until somebody arrived to clear them. Which, in this part of our wonderful world, meant, without a shadow of a doubt, that they’d be there until the very end of time, if not for a little while longer.
Well, maybe he should just stay at home and inhabit some virtual world, where people weren’t making a mess of their environment – and cutting down forests, poisoning the soil or, for the sake of some bastards in the East, killing tens of millions of sharks every year. But that would be to capitulate, to accept that it had all gone so far wrong that it was irredeemable – even if it was. And anyway, virtual environments probably involve at least a modicum of expertise with computers and stuff. So that was a complete non-starter for Brian, and he might as well grit his teeth and just hope that, at some point in the near future, his band of Nature-seekers made it to a plastic-free zone, and where witches’ knickers were just drawers and not bags.
They did. It was a poor small-holding at the edge of the plain, occupied not by a witch but by a lady who was tending her goats, and who clearly thought that strolling around in a group, peering through binoculars and telescopes, was a manifestation of some sort of exotic disease. And maybe it was, when, after more than an hour of such peering, all that this gathering of humanity and technology had reaped was a brief view of one thick-billed lark and a glimpse of a faraway cream-coloured courser. But at least it still wasn’t raining...
In fact, by the time the Nature-seekers had travelled much further east and had stopped to find another rare endemic, the sky was blue and it was actually hot. Ideal conditions for hiking up a steep escarpment, trekking over a boulder-strewn plateau and, after an hour of this diversion, securing not even the slightest glimpse of the endemic.
It was no good. Brian would just have to reset his expectations dial, and remind himself that it was he – and not Sandra – who had chosen this expedition, and she wasn’t showing a hint of gloom and might even be enjoying herself. Or maybe that was just the relief of her knowing that she didn’t have to go back to that hotel. Or, there again, maybe it was the imminence of lunch.
Yes, trekking over, the buses had made their way just a little further east and were now pulling off the road – for a picnic.
And it was identical to yesterday’s picnic, other than that there weren’t any chairs or tables and one had to sit on the ground, and that view of the Dadès River had been replaced by a view of a close-by cistern – full of stagnant water and thrown-away tyres.
Brian consulted his map of Morocco. It might be good news. They were already more than halfway to their next destination and they would soon be turning off the main drag to get there. And maybe a minor road in this country wouldn’t be quite such a trial. There might be a little less evidence of mankind and even the start of some real, untarnished desert. And Brian’s spirit could soar to the heavens.
Well, in the event, it barely got airborne. Camels in the distance gave him an early surge of hope, but then, very quickly, it all went from bad to worse. There were even more of those witches’ knickers here and an even greater quantity of rather more substantial rubbish – around every one of the settlements they passed. And these settlements were grimmer than ever: block houses that must have offered no more than a troglodytic experience to their inhabitants and, around them, more high walls, the skeletons of long-abandoned vehicles, and women who were not only swathed from head to toe, but women who, as the Nature-seekers’ transport approached them, would hastily pull their head-scarves across their eyes. Oh... and the sun had disappeared again. The sky was now various shades of grey.
&n
bsp; Brian thought that slitting his wrists might be a slight overreaction, and he comforted himself with the knowledge that, this time next week, he would be back home in his own house and maybe even mowing the lawn. Or he might be in bed with a cold. But he wouldn’t be here and about to disembark the minibus yet again, in order to search for another little jobbie in a nearby wadi – just as it was almost certainly about to rain.
He nearly went, but Sandra advised against it, accompanying this advice with the threat that her sounding-board facilities might be permanently withdrawn. And he was by no means keen himself. So both of them re-boarded the bus – together with a sensible Sue – and waited to see how far the more foolhardy members of the party would get before they were forced to run back.
It was about one hundred yards. The rain arrived suddenly and it poured down with an almost vindictive intensity. Maybe it was doing the worst it could before the sandstorm arrived to join it...
Bloody hell! It was late afternoon, but it was now like very late twilight – and Brian’s minibus wasn’t just being lashed by the rain, but it was also being moved, as in buffeted and punched. But despite this onslaught by nature, the lateness of the hour and the proximity of their next hotel, it was decided by the group leaders that their Nature-seeker charges should ‘sit the storm out’, here, by the side of the road, and then recommence their birding.
The fact that a mutiny didn’t arise, and that nobody even questioned this decision, spoke volumes about the nature of this particular group of Nature-seekers, and reinforced in spades Brian’s misgivings about the whole expedition. Thank God, he thought again, that he had his book to distract him, and, despite his present situation, that this distraction was not far away. Hell, it was almost properly dark now, and they had to go soon...
They did, and irritatingly, very soon thereafter, they were pulling up to the reception of the next hostelry on their itinerary, and their home for the next two nights: a large hotel just outside the town of Erfoud.
Crystal Balls and Moroccan Walls Page 3