[Cyclefrance]

The second and last Widdlemiddle tale follows – uncannily topical at the moment considering the activities of the main government minister featured (see the Politics section and the thread a bout British Politics). It was written, however, at the time when our Deputy Prime Minister’s department was tasked with producing affordable housing – houses that would be cheap enough to buy to be within the scope of lower paid professionals like nurses. If I remember rightly he did manage to get a builder to produce a new house for £100,000 which was his target price. The only problem was that this didn’t include the land needed to take the construction. Still John Prescott ducked and dived his way out of that one and also probably threw a couple of right jabs at it as well – he’s quite good at that, having already punched one member of the electorate!

Another three new characters to digest in this one, so add to the glossary of story no.1 a gentleman named Ed Balls (seems a shame to have to change that one!) Gordon Brown’s chief assistant at the Treasury, and someone who loves talking in accountancy jargon never acknowledging that no-one understands what the hell he is rambling on about! Add also blind David Blunket, then Home secretary (he resigned after an affair with an American lady - don't know what she saw in him - obviously he could see nothing in her - sorry, bad joke), and finally add someone not of the government but a good friend of Tony Blair, one Cliff Richard, singer ancient and extraordinaire – I think Tony and his family have holidayed at Cliff’s Caribbean villa at least 3 times now….

Oh, and this IS a long one...!


The Widdlemiddle Tales - No.2 Property price bubble pricked


These are the stories of the little people who live and work inside the walls of the Houses of Piddlemint in the Borough of Widdlemiddle, and being the centre of government for the little people of the country in which that borough lies, a magic land the name of which is never spoken, let alone written....

‘What the fuck’s he going on about..?!?’
‘In your usual fine form this morning, I see, Mr Pisspo-‘
‘And you can shut up as well!!’

Joined Pisspot held the handset of his telephone in front of him and stared disbelievingly at the noise that was emanating from it. It was possible to detect a distinct trans-Atlantic ‘twang’ to the voice that was clearly trying to deliver some words of wisdom (no point in being unkind, let’s give our American friend the benefit of any doubt that there might be about that), but so far as Two Jugs was concerned he might just as well be speaking Chinese. Somehow, whatever connection the speaker might have had with the English language was completely lost on the Dyspeptic Primary Minteater – somewhere between Sheffield and Coventry I would hasard a reasonable guess!

‘Burble, burble, £60,000, burble, burble. Turg, burble, condo, flurgle burp’

‘May I try, sir?’
‘Please yourself, Skirmish’
Richly Deserved Skirmish III MBE, DSO, RAC took the handset from Pisspot, and placed it quite close (but not too close) to his ear. As Pisspot’s personal private secretary he was used to this sort of development first thing in the piddlemintary office. Pisspot never was that good in the mornings (some would say that applied to the afternoons and the evenings as well, but whoever did say that, they most certainly would never ever be R D Skirmish III, MBE, DSO, RAC).

‘I see…., mmm……, oh, really……, yes, that makes sense….., that quickly…., certainly would……, no problem……., I’ll take down your details then……, OK, that’s fine. Mr Pisspot will write to you immediately!’

‘And….??’

‘Well, sir, it seems you have stumbled across a real opportunity. Not only can the gentleman on the phone, Bucks Grandiose Jr., build you the cheap accommodation you wanted but he can do two for the price of one! All we need to do is to write to him, well to his brother Billboard actually, giving details of what we need and they will organise for a show-home to be sent to us within ten days. It’s all flat-pack stuff that can be put together with not much more than a screwdriver. And a pack that makes up two three-bedroom apartments – condominiums, or ‘condos’ as he called them – can be arranged at a price well within the target. He just requires an official piddlemintary letter from you confirming that we will take delivery of the item and Bob’s your uncle!’

‘Right, sounds good. Well you write the letter, Skirmish, but make sure it sounds like it’s come from me. None of your ponsy Eton language, you hear?’

‘Of course, sir…’ but privately Skirmish was thinking ‘oh, no, writing northern…. Again!’

It was well into the late afternoon before Skirmish had a real chance to put pen to paper. He’d turned the words over and over, again and again in his mind, but they just didn’t sound quite right. Still better get it done. It needn’t be a long letter anyway, Sharp and to the point would be much better.

The words formed from his pen tip, slowly at first, and then he seemed to gain a rhythm, almost (only almost) enjoying his task. His tongue darted across his lips from one side to the other as the concentration took over.

‘OI!!’ Skirmish jumped out of his skin. ‘You finished that yet?’
‘ Not quite but it’s coming on quite ni-‘
‘ Give it here. Let me see!’

Skirmish timidly passed across the sheet of paper containing his words. Why did he feel so, well, frightened. Of course, it was obvious. Whatever he wrote it wasn’t going to be good enough.

‘This isn’t good enough. There’s no way I’d say that. What the hell is a “preconceptual investigation” for God’s sake. Oh, it gets worse….. just, just piss-off Skirmish. I’ll do it myself!’

And with that Pisspot stormed off taking the letter with him. Skirmish sighed, relieved, but at the same time he felt this quick cold chill brush across the back of his neck. But then it was gone. Never mind. He set about the remainder of his day’s chores putting the incident to the back of his mind (which, conveniently enough, was just above the back of his neck!)…

+++

Two weeks had passed. Nothing particularly notable had happened since to speak of. And this morning was a glorious sunny morning as well. So few of them left, he knew, but he did enjoy these late summer days that kept winter at bay.

The phone rang and Skirmish answered: ‘DPM’s office, Richly Deserved Skirmish III speaking…’

‘Aaah, Richly, my dear boy….’ It was Edible Bollocks, Golden Brain’s protégé and number 2 at the Treachery Office, ‘just the man I wanted to talk to….’ And off Edible went into one of his long, drawling, totally confusing and meaningless diatribes.

‘Mmm…. Uh,huh…. Ye-(stifled yawn)-es…. mmm………… ‘

Skirmish was interrupted in mid affirmation by a knock at the door. Bollocks rambled on.

A man in overalls waved a piece of paper: ‘Delivery for Mr Pisspot…’
‘Oh, jolly good!’ Skirmish had placed a hand across the mouthpiece of his telephone. Bollocks (needless to say) rambled on, the odd word still catching Skirmish’s ear.
‘mean average…….statistical fluctuation…….’
‘Is that our condos?’
‘Yeah, that’s right, guv, sign here.’
Skirmish signed the paper:’ ignorant fellow’, he thought, ‘misspelled condos, as I might have guessed.’ He chuckled to himself.
‘….growth cycle……GDP……’
Would the man never stop?
‘So where do you want them?’
‘Oh, yes, of course – put them in Horse Farts Parade on that nice big open square of ground. That should do shouldn’t it?’
‘ Oh, yes Guv – plenty of room there I reckon – mind you it is a big load.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would be….’ The delivery man went.

‘And that’s it. I just wanted to run that past you. Can I count on Joined’s support on this. It is rather important after all’
‘Of course, of course my dear, Edible, I am sure Mr Pisspot will be as supportive as ever on such matters.’ (Whatever it was and whatever that meant!)

The minutes and then an hour ticked peacefully by. At least old Bollocks had gone. Skirmish had to agree with the majority opinion - he certainly lived up to his name! But he couldn’t sit around here all morning gazing into space. On to more important things. Now where had he put those breadcrumbs. Almost time to feed the ducks over in St Gymshoes Park. Skirmish rummaged through his briefcase. Not there. Bottom drawer? No. Think back, think back. He’d come into the office. The bag of crumbs had been in his left hand, and he’d taken his jacket off and thrown it onto the chaise-longue by the window. He looked. He could see the edge of the packet just protruding under his jac-

The red phone rang with a harsh, shrill jangle! Tiny’s line (Tiny Blur, the Primary Minteater) – the Hot Line! He knew the peace couldn’t last. What now….??