It was an altogether different affair from Hotel Cardboard, and it was even rather pleasant. Through the reception area was an enormous high-walled compound and, beyond a blue, palm-fringed and frogless swimming pool, were the rooms: single-storey, pink-painted blocks, made pretty with a covering of splendid bougainvillea. And the rooms were perfect. They were large, well furnished and their walls were entirely solid. All that was needed now to complete this rather agreeable introduction was a well-stocked and fully-open bar. And there it was. Brian and Sandra had cleaned themselves up and were now having their first beer of the day with some of their more companionable companions in the hotel’s “drinking lounge”. It was a somewhat peculiar mix of Seventies pub and Arabian harem – with poorly-finished wood-panelling and balustrades, heavy wrought-iron tables, Wetherspoon carpeting – and Islamic decoration on the ceiling and walls, Still, it was comfortable enough and the beer was OK, and there was even the realistic prospect of a decent evening meal.
Back in their room, Brian agreed with Sandra that uttering that expletive quite so loudly when the tajine arrived at their table had probably not won him many brownie points with his fellow Nature-seekers. But so what? He wasn’t planning to spend the rest of his life with them. And he intended to spend his immediate future with just his wife. Because he was now ready to assail her with a presentation on another feature of mid-century Britain – having spent some time peering into his economy crystal ball. And before Sandra could do anything about it, he had started.
‘OK. Well, we’ve established that by the middle of this century, Britain has become a vassal state and that its local affairs are either in the hands of a new breed of national parties, or, more often than not, under the thumb of a new breed of warlords. But we haven’t yet discussed its economy. We haven’t yet addressed how its economy might have been “rebalanced” to recognise the new world realities...’
Sandra belatedly made her move.
‘Are you sure we have to address them now?’ she offered. ‘We could just play “I Spy” instead.’
But no. That wasn’t going to work. Brian just smiled and launched into his explanation of what Britain’s workers were doing by 2050 – as though he had a lecture room full of students who were simply desperate to learn – and not an audience of one who could just as well “take it or leave it”...
‘So, the southern half of Britain is mostly bananas and mangoes...’
‘What?!’
‘Global warming. You must have heard of it. Well, by the middle of the century, it’s really begun to bite. So, in what is now a major sector of the British economy – its agricultural sector – crops have been chosen which best suit its climate, which, as far north as Milton Keynes and Saffron Walden, is now more sub-tropical than sub-raincloud. And, from there on up it’s more Mediterranean, and here we get vineyards, citrus groves and the odd olive grove, as well as stuff like melons and tomatoes...’
‘And in Scotland?’
‘Potatoes. Scotland proved impervious to global warming, and it’s still as cold and damp up there as it has been forever. So they still grow potatoes – and sugar beet and kale and dandelions – all the sort of stuff to feed the natives. While all the bananas and olives – and wine... well, the Chinese get the lion’s share of that...’
‘You’re saying that they get all the goodies, while we eat all the dross?’
‘Yes. More or less. Although, of course, with warlords around, there’s a thriving black market in all sorts of stuff, including stuff you don’t necessarily eat...’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning the stuff they produce from the opium fields around Bude and the cannabis plantations near Eastbourne. Now that tobacco smoking attracts the death penalty, both heroin and ganja are more popular than ever.’
‘Christ!’
At this point, Brian studied his wife. That remark seemed to indicate that she was accepting what he was telling her as fact. Which in one way was very gratifying and in another very worrying. But for the moment he’d focus on the gratifying aspect, and capitalise on her obvious engagement by pressing on quickly – and talking about oil...
‘Now, I did say that the agricultural sector is a major sector of the British economy, and this is due, in part, to the fact that it is a major employer. Because, of course, most agricultural work is now done by hand. After all, with no oil available, you can’t run tractors or anything involving an engine. And even horse-power has its limits...’
‘I thought that the oil was due to last well beyond the middle of the century...’
‘Yes, it was. But that was before a GM virus, which was supposed to create oil, mutated into a virus which digested oil, and then got itself into the oilfields. And there it consumed most of the oil that was still left. Britain by 2050, like virtually every other country on the planet, is a non-oil society.’
‘So what about transport?’
‘I’m glad you asked that...’
At which point, Sandra rolled her eyes. Just maybe she wasn’t quite as credulous as Brian believed. And she may still have been able to recognise a patronising comment when she heard it. It was just as well for Brian that she was slow to take offence.
‘You see,’ the lecturer continued, ‘people in mid-century Britain don’t travel much at all. But that said, there is still a need for some transport, if not for people, then for goods – including such things as potatoes. So there’s now been a revival in the train industry. And before you ask, that’s with Chinese steam trains and British coal. Mining is back and so too are greenhouse emissions. Because, not only are there steam trains, but there are also steam road-wagons, which now share the roads with horse-drawn vehicles, bicycles, the odd sedan chair, the odd rickshaw and, for the country’s elite, the even odder RBP car...’
‘RBP car?’
‘The “rubber-band-powered” car. A small plastic car powered by an incredibly sophisticated rubber-band engine – made by Rolls Royce. Because, as you can well imagine, with oil gone – and aeroplanes a thing of the past – they had to find something else to do. And it was the same with BAE Systems, which, with the demise of aircraft and, indeed, anything involving any really high-tech content, had to switch to the manufacture of bicycles and some other rather lower-tech stuff. In fact, BAE Systems now stands for “Bicycles And Electrical Systems”.’
‘Electrical Systems?’
‘Yes. Things like dynamos. So you can put granny on your bike at home and get her to power the lights in the lounge. After all, there isn’t much in the way of centrally generated juice any more. And, of course...’
‘Here, wait a minute. How can you have rubber-band-powered cars? That’s just stupid.’
‘Not if you have a Rolls Royce standard of technology – and a growing band of rubber-band winders...’
‘Sorry?’
‘Remember, people need jobs. And transport now offers more jobs than ever. I mean, just think about it: all sorts of railway workers, all sorts of horse-workers, sedan-chair carriers, rickshaw pullers – and people who, for a hefty fee, will wind up your rubber-band.’
Sandra failed to look impressed.
‘I think you should drop that one from the final draft,’ she observed. ‘People will think you’re winding them up. And they’re not made of rubber.’
‘Point taken,’ conceded Brian. ‘But now I think I should move on to another sector – which still exists, but again, in a rather different form. And what I’m talking about here is the construction industry, which no longer builds much, but gets most of its work from taking things down.’
‘You mean they’ve become a demolition industry?’
‘Some demolition, but a lot more dismantling. So, for example, they’ve been taking down and then disassembling all those damn wind-turbines – very carefully indeed – so that all their different metals can be separated before they get shipped off to China. And think how much usable metal the Chinese can get out of our redundant electricity pylons, and out of our closed-down fac
tories and out of our closed-down, out-of-town stores and all our unused football stadiums – after the inevitable demise of professional football.’
‘So we’re taking everything down and shipping it off to China?’
‘No. Mostly just the metal. Anything combustible tends to get burnt – for heat – and most of the rubble ends up on the east coast. With the rise in sea levels, we’ve already lost most of Norfolk, and now there’s a concerted effort to save Ipswich. Albeit opinion is divided as to whether it’s really worth it...’
‘You mentioned closed-down factories. Does that mean we don’t make stuff anymore?’
‘China and Samsung make virtually everything. All we make is a rather mediocre market for their goods, and in Britain, the word “manufacturing” is now more likely to be found in association with the word “lies” than the word “stuff”. It’s just all gone – other than bicycles, dynamos, and, in this draft, rubber-band engines...’
‘There’s really nothing else?’
‘Well, a few straw-dollies in one or two places, the odd clothes-peg here and there, and there’s even a factory near Borth on the Welsh coast that is still making trusses. But there again, it’s by no means certain that the news of the Chinese takeover has reached them there yet, and the stockpile of trusses is now enormous.’
‘Are China and Samsung making all the mobile phones as well?’
Yes. And they’re all so incredibly cheap that there are now more of them than ever in the country, and, in fact, their constant use now underpins a huge slice of our remaining service sector.’
‘How?’
‘Well, through the creation of all sorts of new services. So, for example, one might want to avail oneself of the services of a “ghost tweeter”. And these are the guys who will make tweets on your behalf, and so give your fingers a rest without it causing a panic amongst all your followers. Or, of course, you might want to take the cheaper route, which isn’t an individual doing the tweets, but another bit of technology. Your phone gets connected to a tweeting programme that automatically sends out standard tweets chosen at random from a huge database of tweet messages. And although they are all, without exception, completely meaningless and embarrassingly inane, they are also, of course, completely indistinguishable from the real thing. And, whilst I’m on the subject of harmless deceit, how about buying some virtual friends for your Facebook page? For less than the cost of a bucket of turnips, you can be the most popular guy around. If still the saddest. Oh, and just one more: the “app manager”, the specialist operator who, for a small monthly fee, will manage your multiplicity of apps so that they don’t overwhelm you...’
Sandra was smiling again. But then the smile dissolved and she asked Brian a question. It was: ‘What’s happened to the finance industry? If my memory serves me well, that used to be a fair old chunk of the service sector.’
‘Ah, another good question,’ responded Brian rather insensitively. ‘To which the answer is that it has disappeared – entirely.’
‘Really?!’
‘Yes, really. And its complete disappearance started even before the Chinese turned up. And that was when “Anonymous” – you know, that group of online anarchists – got their hands on a whole tranche of payroll records – from all the banks and all the other major financial institutions. And then they published them online. All the details, including the names and home addresses of all those wankers who were making off with all those outrageous bonuses. And lo! Within just a few weeks, more than 90% of these practitioners of onanism were seeking their fortunes in pastures new. Like in places such as Poundland, Mecca bingo halls and twenty-four hour service stations. And this may or may not have had something to do with the rumoured visitations they received in their bedrooms – normally at between three and four in the morning – from strangers wearing balaclavas and carrying either baseball bats or oiled, sharpened sticks.’
‘Blimey. So what happened? I mean, you know, to the finance sector.’
‘Well, it shrank. By quite a lot, actually. But, if you’re asking what happened in terms of its contribution to the rest of society, then of course the answer is sweet Fanny Adams. How can you reduce a zero contribution to below zero? Remember, most of what was going on in this so-called industry was just something economists call “rent extraction”, which is the making of money from useless and valueless activity. So, the only losers were the bastards who were conducting this activity, who now no longer had the opportunity to skim off all those egregious salaries and all those even more egregious bonuses. But for everybody else, there was hardly a ripple in the ether.’
‘Crikey, that sounds like really good news.’
‘Well, yes it was. But it was very short-lived good news. Because it was soon overtaken by some other news, which was that all the world’s markets were collapsing because everybody had finally realised that the world was going down the pan big time – followed on, shortly thereafter, by the discovery that the savings part of the finance industry had spent all our savings. With all those years of stuffing bonuses in their pockets, there was nothing left. Not even a bloody thank-you note.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh indeed. And to make matters worse, Fred Goodwin was still getting his soddin’ pension...’
‘So what happened next?’
‘Oh, just a long period of common sense, and then, shortly after the Chinese had arrived, the emergence of more and more bartering, which rather spiked the chances of any revival of a finance sector. I mean, just imagine them trying to short-sell carrots or attempting to securitise a cart-load of wurzels. So, although Britain is almost completely screwed in 2050, it does have, as an enormous consolation, a complete absence of bankers and their other various partners in crime, and there ain’t any way they’ll be coming back. Other, of course, than in people’s nightmares...’
‘Wow!’
‘Well. So there you are. That’s Britain’s economy by the year 2050. And tell me. How was it for you?’
‘You mean you’ve finished?!’
‘Errh yes, but...’
‘Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so relieved.’
‘Even though you are...’
‘Well, it’s been a long day.’
‘Well, it is finished. Except for a question. And that question, Sandra dear, is what, in my description of the British economy, have I omitted to cover?’
Sandra looked worried. Maybe she hadn’t been paying complete attention.
‘Errh...,’ she started. ‘Errh, well, errh catering? Or maybe stuff like plumbing and carpentry...?’
‘Think back to rent extraction.’
‘Ah, of course. Civil servants. Bureaucracy... And then there’s the law. There are bound to be lawyers still around. They’re more resilient than an armour-plated cockroach.’
‘Correct. And these will be the subject of a further enlightenment on the state of Britain by the middle of this century.’
‘But not tonight?’
‘No, not tonight. I know how keen you are to make the most of a room with soundproof walls. And no, I had in mind sleeping there, and not... well, you know, singing – or anything like that. And what’s more, I’m sure you’ll want to digest what I’ve told you this evening.’
Well, that, of course, assumed that any part of Brian’s brief lecture was in any way digestible. But Sandra, much to her credit, didn’t draw this to Brian’s attention. Instead, she smiled at her husband, gave him an indeterminate nod of her head and, before setting about the task of sleeping, pointed out to him once again that a rubber-band engine really was completely and totally beyond belief.
Just as he was himself.
4.
Today was to be the highlight of the tour: a Land Rover excursion into the heart of the desert with a stop-off at the famous “Erg Chebbi” dunes, and then a traditional lunch at a Berber “depot”. And what made this such an attractive proposition was not just the opportunity to experience some real Saharan-sand-t
ype desert, but also the opportunity to find some real desert exotics, birds such as the imperious “houbara bustard” and maybe even the enigmatic “Egyptian nightjar”. Well, what could Brian possibly find wrong with that?
Easy. That stop-off at the famous Erg Chebbi dunes was to witness the sunrise – and, as these dunes were not within cart-wheeling distance of the Nature-seekers’ hotel, that meant a very early start to the day. As in a three o’clock in the morning start to the day!
Well, Brian and Sandra had both managed very early starts for excursions on other wildlife holidays (sometimes on a number of successive mornings). But very infrequently had they been subjected to an extended and demoralising journey the day before, or, in Brian’s case, to an extended bout of sleep deprivation before that. Before retiring last night, he had calculated that he had accumulated no more than four hours sleep in the preceding two days. And he knew very well that a mere four hours more – at best – would certainly not be conducive to his relishing even a talking houbara bustard, and might even precipitate an unwelcome period of sustained delirium.
So, before that retiring had been undertaken, our two fair-weather wussies had already decided that the highlight of their day would be a mother of all lie-ins, and, if possible, they’d stock up with enough sleep to last them until they’d arrived back at Gatwick. They were quite sure that the bustards wouldn’t mind, and, in any event, a whole “day at leisure” in a grand hotel, complete with a frogless swimming pool, might prove a more than ample compensation for missing a twelve-hour ride through the desert.
It started well, albeit not until late morning. Brian and Sandra had slept like long lengths of cut timber, and had woken to discover a bright if chilly day and what it felt like to have accomplished a much-needed rest. They had a real appetite for breakfast – and a real appetite for not much of anything – and no sense of guilt whatsoever. For after emerging from breakfast, there, in an otherwise empty hotel, were three of their Nature-seeker companions. They were not the only wussies. Stella and Peter, a well-travelled and, as was now apparent, a well-balanced couple from Yorkshire, were still in residence, and so too was Ted, the eldest and most Scottish member of the entire group. And it was soon discovered that all three of these rational souls, just like Brian and Sandra, had opted for self-inflicted excommunication in place of self-inflicted exhaustion, in the firm belief that exhaustion was not the best preparation for all the travelling that was yet to come. And nobody wanted to die of exhaustion either.
Crystal Balls and Moroccan Walls Page 4