For the Love of Money

by Bill Whiting

  Miller’s brief speech to the crowd, following the announcement of the Cosworth result, had been broadcast repeatedly in bulletins on the news channels…

  “Throughout this campaign,” Miller had said, “I have worked tirelessly to persuade the people of Cosworth not to vote for me. This comprehensive election victory, therefore represents a clear and resounding personal defeat for me. I must now accept, however, that the people have spoken and I must reflect upon that. I would like to congratulate my opponents, who have fought a fair and clean campaign and must take full credit for the voters’ decisive rejection of my appeal for rejection. I have nothing more to add right now.”

  As the news continued, Miller and King sat watching TV in Miller’s penthouse, each with a severe hangover.

  “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?” King said.

  “No, I didn’t, actually,” Miller answered. “I thought it might, but I wasn’t sure until the opposition weighed in against me. After that, any possibility of avoiding downward momentum became a hopeless uphill struggle. As soon as they tell people what to believe, people find it unbelievable. People hate politicians and this is their way of showing it. They’ve given the establishment a big ‘V’ sign. And they’ve made the news. For once an election has been fun. A game. And they wanted to be part of it. That’s the way the world is going.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me you thought you might be elected?” King said.

  “You needed to be kept on track,” Miller responded. “I thought the only way of winning was to keep you one hundred per cent focused on losing.”

  “So, I was right then,” King said, “but where does the money come in?”

  “Well, you’re convinced there’s money in it, so there’s no point in me telling you there isn’t,” Miller replied. “Only time will tell if that dark, cynical and depressing money-centred view you have on everything is justified. Meantime, it’s just interesting, you know, finding out what makes people tick.”

  “What’s it prove then?” King asked. “That voters are all idiots?”

  “No, maybe just the opposite,” Miller said. “They just used me to give two fingers to the rest of them. You know, just for the hell of it. But I’ll think about it a bit more, especially before the TV appearance on Saturday. I’ve accepted an invitation to appear on the Malcolm Atkinson chat show, and there’s a twenty-grand fee in it.”

  “Wow, great,” King said, “but that Atkinson guy’s a bit acidic, isn’t he?”

  “Bit of a twat, yes, but I can handle him,” Miller answered, before yawning and dozing off.

  Twenty-four hours later, Miller was sitting beside Atkinson in the television studio.

  “Well,” Atkinson began, “if I may say so, Mr Miller, I think people in the audience here were amazed at your election. I think they can spot the difference between a serious politician addressing serious issues and an eccentric millionaire like you, with a daft nihilistic manifesto. So why did they vote for you in Cosworth?”

  “Because,” Miller answered, “politics bores them. It has no entertainment value. It’s argumentative, miserable and depressing: all about problems which go round and round and never get solved. At Cosworth, I turned things into the equivalent of an election reality TV show; and you know all about the appeal of that kind of thing. It’s much more fun. Many people prefer to vote for cockroach-eating celebrities in the jungle than vote for politicians, and sometimes they actually have to pay to vote for them.”

  “You don’t think you’re being unfair and arrogant regarding politics?” Atkinson responded. “Think of Churchill – a man of real substance and stature.”

  “That was another age,” Miller replied. “Churchill spoke with a lisp and was short, bald, very fat, extremely posh and a boozer too. A great man, but he wouldn’t stand a chance today. Good-looking celebrities are the heroes. I guess I’ve thrown a very disruptive product into the political market-place. Everyone was selling sweeping brushes and I came along with a vacuum cleaner.”

  “You don’t really believe politics is a market-place, do you?” Atkinson asked. “I mean, what business is it in?”

  “Show business,” Miller answered. “The House of Commons is a very poor TV show, where politicians and journalists are paid very well to produce entertainment. And they make a poor job of it.”

  “Well, I’m a journalist myself,” Atkinson said, defensively, “but I hardly think we produce a show in politics. We report it, analyse it and scrutinise it. We protect the public.”

  “Not at all,” Miller said. “The relationship between politicians and journalists is symbiotic: like little fish swimming about picking scabs off bigger fish. Politicians and journalists feed off each other in a very beneficial way. They work together to attract an audience, and then they feed off the audience.”

  “Steady on,” Atkinson cautioned. “You are talking about real people. In your world, haven’t you come across things like truth, honour, loyalty, family values?”

  “Well,” Miller said, “the average car shock-absorber now lasts forty-five per cent longer than the average marriage, and the average wild rabbit, which makes no wedding vows, has forty per cent fewer sexual partners than the average human in Britain. How’s that for truth? But anyway, it doesn’t matter a jot, because I asked people not to vote for me.”

  “You really are an insulting person, Mr Miller,” Atkinson said. “I think you’ll find all research polls shows that the vast majority of people are quite unlike you; they’re unselfish and certainly not self-centred.”

  “The polls are questionable,” Miller replied. “When people are directly asked a question, they tend to give an acceptable-sounding answer. A while ago, I commissioned some research in which the respondents were remote and anonymous. These five questions were asked… and just yes or no answers required.

  “To women aged twenty-five to fifty-five: would you rather have a smaller bum than an improvement in the British education system?

  “To men aged twenty-five to thirty-five: do you fear baldness more than global warming?

  “To men and women aged thirty to sixty: would you rather see a big fall in house prices than a big fall in crime?

  “To men and women aged eighteen to eighty: would you rather win the lottery jackpot than see the annual road death rate halved?

  “To women aged thirty to forty: would you prefer to see supermarket car park and checkout queues reduced, rather than hip replacement operation waiting lists?

  “Well, would you like to hear the results, Mr Atkinson?”

  “This isn’t a silly game show,” Atkinson responded angrily. “Look, your election was a once-in-a-lifetime, off-the-wall, freaky, weird, bizarre and grotesque event. The vast majority of people respect and value their politicians and their journalists.”

  “What they like are celebrities and sports stars and gurus. They want personal trainers, life coaches, garden make-over experts, therapists, psychologists, nutritionists and hypnotists. They want people to advise them what to eat, how to cook, what to wear and how to look. They want face-lifting surgeons, teeth-straightening and -whitening dentists and cellulose-shifting masseuses. And they want yoga and reiki teachers.”

  The audience jeered and Atkinson was signalled to get Miller off the set fast. As Miller walked out of the building, King asked, “How much did you pay for that research?”

  “Nothing,” Miller replied. “I made it up.”

  “Well, you were a bit heavy there,” King said. “They hated you.”

  “True,” Miller responded. “I’m hated – but I’m one of the most famous politicians in Britain now. And all publicity is good publicity.”

  “Good for what?” King asked.

  “You’ll see, mate,” Miller responded enigmatically. “You’ll see.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Government ministers were delighted t
o have been returned to power, but the result was tainted by the very low voting turnout. More than half the nation had not bothered. Worse still, the only constituency to buck the trend was Cosworth, where the winner had campaigned to lose. The evident disengagement of the electorate was a ‘matter of serious concern’.

  The Prime Minister said nothing was more important to the nation than the maintenance of healthy and inclusive democratic institutions; and these were now threatened by the creeping and corrosive menace of apathy and confusion. As a result, an inquiry was set up to investigate the reasons behind the problem and to recommend action. The powerful committee set up included representatives from all political parties represented – except one.

  Though not on the committee, Miller was asked to give evidence, but declined; and since the Atkinson interview he had also turned down an avalanche of requests to talk to the media. Miller had decided to ‘go to ground’, or more specifically, to King’s ocean liner, the 45,000-tonne Debauchery, in the Adriatic. King had arranged a luxury cabin for Miller, as the fully booked ship sailed on a seven-day ‘Roman Orgy’-themed cruise.

  Miller kept to his cabin throughout, ignoring all calls on his mobile phone. His disappearance had made him an even bigger news topic in Britain, where he had become a hate figure to many, though a celebrated cult figure to many others. He had also attracted the media overseas, where some newspapers had bemoaned Britain’s ‘sick democracy’, and others even gloated over the indelible stain on the ‘mother of all parliaments’.

  It was no surprise then, that Parliament was packed when Miller arrived for the day traditionally reserved for the maiden speeches of all newly elected members. The occasion was usually thinly attended and scarcely reported. But on this day, the press gallery was packed and live TV coverage was scheduled on news channels in the UK and many overseas countries. It was debatable whether or not Miller had made politics sick, but no-one could deny that he had made it interesting. Suddenly there was a mass-market interest, and Miller’s maiden speech promised all the fascination of a spectacular accident waiting to happen.

  Miller was the sixth member due to speak, and he sat quietly in the chamber throughout the ninety minutes it took the others to deliver their speeches. Some MPs smiled in his direction, but most ignored him. Some looked disapproving, as he sat wearing jeans and a tee shirt with the word’s ‘Sidney’s Soap’ printed on it.

  Miller had begun to feel drowsy as he listened to the speakers, all of whom put special emphasis on declaring how variously honoured, proud, privileged, grateful and thrilled they felt to be making their debuts in Parliament. Then at last he heard the speaker call, ‘The Honourable Member for Cosworth’.

  He cleared his throat and started to speak.

  “Mr Speaker, I think this may be the first and last time that an honourable member’s first speech is also his last. Yes – I do intend to resign. But before I do so, I would like to tell a short story. I think it is important; and I think that, in time, you will come to understand why. And since I shall not be here again, I hope the House will bear with me, and listen to what I have to say. On the surface at least, it’s a very simple story. But I beg you to consider it carefully and remember the message which lies behind it.

  “Many years ago, in a recording studio, a radio commercial was being produced. It was a very simple commercial, and everything went well until the final part of the job: the recording of the slogan, read by a man called Bernie.

  “All Bernie had to say was, ‘Sidney’s soap is very good’. And it was planned that he should do so in a laid-back, very quiet and reassuring voice: something different from all those shouty commercials. And he delivered the line perfectly first time. ‘Well done, great, perfect!’ the director said. ‘But… er… could we just do it one more time with more emphasis on the brand name, because the brand is the key to this.’

  “‘SIDNEY’S SOAP is very good,’ was duly delivered.

  “‘Beautiful,’ the director shouted. ‘Er… but it just needs a tiny tweak. I mean people need to know this is a good product, so try again, with more emphasis on the word good.’

  “‘Fine, here goes,’ Bernie said. ‘SIDNEY’S SOAP is very GOOD.’

  “‘Fantastic,’ the director said. ‘We’re there. Er… but just one little thing. I mean, we need to let people know this soap isn’t just good, it’s very good. Emphasise the word very too please, Bernie.’

  “‘SIDNEY’S SOAP is VERY GOOD,’ was duly delivered.

  “‘We’re there,’ the director shouted. ‘Er… but just one last thing. It’s the word is. We need to emphasise the present tense of this thing – to give it that here-and-now urgency.’

  “So, Bernie took an extra-deep breath and bellowed the slogan out with everything he’d got: ‘SIDNEY’S SOAP IS VERY GOOD!’

  “‘That’s it,’ the director said. ‘We got there in the end. Well done, everybody.’”

  Miller then stopped speaking, and stood silent as the chamber and millions watching TV looked on.

  “Well, that’s it,” he said “I shall say no more. All I ask is that you think about the important message my story contains. I resign. Goodbye.”

  And with that, Miller left to a deafening silence.

  Miller dodged the waiting reporters and went straight home, with all phones disabled. A dozen news teams were outside his apartment block, but Miller stayed put. Early next morning, his stand-by mobile rang. Few had the number, so Miller answered it.

  “Jamie, it’s me,” King said. “So what’s it all about? The whole fucking world is trying to figure out the point of your story.”

  “Well, what do you think?” Miller asked.

  “Too much spin in politics? Too much dither? Too much focus on presentation over substance? Or maybe Sidney’s Soap is meant to represent Britain, the radio commercial director symbolises the Prime Minister and Bernie stands for the voice of the people? It’s one of those allegory things – a kind of political parable?”

  “It really isn’t that complicated, Bill,” Miller said.

  “Well, all the newspapers are running columns on it,” King said. “They’ve got loads of experts explaining what they think the story means. Another bloke on TV said it’s like the phrase ‘the higher they get the fewer’. It sounds like it should mean something, but actually it doesn’t mean a bloody thing. His theory was that you are just taking the piss.”

  “Yeah, well I’m going to leave them all to it,” Miller said. “I’ve quit politics now.”

  “So what are you going to do then, mate?” King asked. “You can’t bum around doing nothing for ever; it’d drive you nuts.”

  “Well, I bought myself a little business a few months ago,” Miller said. “Nothing much, not very well known. I bought it for less than ten grand.”

  “So, you’ll work on that then?” King responded.

  “No,” Miller said. “I’m going to sell it next week for two million.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re back in the brewing business,” King said.

  “No,” Miller answered, “it’s Sidney’s Soap Limited.”

  EPILOGUE

  Years passed before Miller, King and Rachel met in November 2016 for a long-awaited reunion at Rachel’s home in America.

  “We were lucky,” Miller said, as they each sat in a luxurious leather chair. “The whole world’s gone nuts now with this internet thing. All the crazy money-making ideas we had are two a penny now. And people had barely even heard of Google, Facebook, Amazon and Apple back then.”

  “But remember, you both rubbished my idea about an internet club,” Rachel said. “That would have made a trillion.”

  “True,” King said, “but how could we have known? It sounded even nuttier than our nutty ideas at the time.”

  “Anything’s possible now,” Miller said.

  And at that point, news broke on Rachel’s TV
screen.

  The United States, a country with 327 million people – including many of the best educated and smartest in the world – had just elected Donald Trump as President.