Crystal Balls and Moroccan Walls

by David Fletcher

  Neither did they want to be “matey”. At least, not for the whole day. They agreed that they would meet again for lunch but, before then, Stella and Peter were keen to visit a fossil shop across the road from the hotel – as this was a big fossil area, where the locals dug up and prepared fossils for a living – Ted was keen to complement his night-time slumbers with a bit of mid-morning napping – and Brian and Sandra were keen not to be keen about anything. They’d settle for a wander around the hotel’s giant compound and, if they felt really adventurous, for a wander outside.

  When they’d done this, they agreed that it had been mildly interesting, not least in how it had given them a further insight into the Moroccan way of life and the use of Moroccan walls. For, up to now, they had been beyond these walls, outsiders who were denied a view of what went on within. But now that situation had been reversed, and they had been able to see how the high compound walls of the hotel concealed the pampered life of all those who could afford its treats – and kept out the reality of all that was around. For not only were these walls high enough to prevent those outside from seeing in, but, with an icing of broken-glass on their ridge, they would also prevent those outside from ever getting in. And by walking outside the hotel, one could easily see that some might be tempted. No palm trees or swimming pools here, but just a flat expanse of dusty desert, scarred with the usual detritus of acute poverty and endemic neglect, and lacking anything approaching charm.

  This isolation from reality was discussed over lunch. So too was just how well it reflected their own isolation as members of a birding party. With an ornithological rather than an anthropological focus to the tour, it was almost inevitable that they would all be divorced from “the real Morocco”. But if one added to this an inability to communicate in the local lingo, a cultural divide that, in certain respects, was almost impossible to bridge – and an architectural manifestation of this culture that seemed designed to discourage contact – it was no great surprise that the Nature-seekers would never really learn what it was like to live here. And what it was like to be outside those compound walls – maybe within compound walls of one’s own – and not tucking in to chips and cheese omelette...

  Yes! And with not a tajine in sight – and no chopped-up salad either. Brian was ecstatic and more than ever certain that staying in the hotel had been the right decision. Just as staying in his room with his wife for a post-prandial consummation of their shared truancy was the next right decision to take. And then, of course, there was some preparation to do – for this evening’s sounding-board session. Because, if he wasn’t prepared, Sandra might make a run for it...

  By late afternoon, Brian had done all he wanted to do – on all fronts – and it was now just a matter of drinking and eating before he could assail his wife with the next section of his book. Which, in practice, meant biting his lip when the next tajine was served and, instead, focusing on the various levels of weariness apparent around the table. Because all those who had set off at three a.m. to go bustard hunting for the day and were now back to enjoy the hotel’s dining facility, seemed to be having a little bit of difficulty enjoying anything other than the prospect of a very early bed. They looked either desperately tired or just plain confused, as if challenged on the size of a bustard or on their mother’s maiden name, they might have a bit of a problem. There again, they had made the effort to go on a real excursion, while Mr Supercilious Super-wimp had managed just another excursion into the realms of absurdity – as Sandra would very soon discover.

  They were now back in their room, sitting in their respective beds, and Sandra had picked up a book. However, it would do her no good, and soon Brian was attracting her attention – with an embarrassingly theatrical clearing of his throat.

  ‘Got a problem?’ enquired his wife.

  ‘Well, no. Not if you’re ready.’

  ‘Ah...’

  ‘You did promise.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I suppose you’d better start.’

  As she spoke these words, Sandra stroked the cover of her book and sighed very gently. Brian, benefiting from a surge of testosterone after all that resting, failed to notice either the gesture or the sigh, and instead leapt feet-first into his dissertation. And, in response to an early interruption by his sounding-board audience, feet-first first into a commentary on the essence of the Civil Service – as it has been in the past, as it is in the present – and as it will be far into the future.

  ‘OK,’ he started. ‘Tonight I promised you the results of my inspection of my bureaucrats and fellow travellers crystal ball, and therefore a discussion on the British Civil Service in 2050; how it might be occupying its time by then – and how healthy it might be...’

  ‘Yes, I remember that promise. But it’s occurred to me that you also told me that we don’t have a national government by then. So why would there be a national Civil Service?’

  Brian looked at his wife with such a look of condescension on his face that the word “condescension” could have been written across his forehead in large illuminated letters, and it wouldn’t have been any clearer. And then he began to condescend – and to address that issue of essence.

  ‘Sandra, you are forgetting what the Civil Service is all about. What it has done in the past and how it operates – and how it thrives. And how can you think, even for a second, that such a trifling matter as having no government would get in its way, and that it wouldn’t just carry on as before? Remember, when Britain had an empire, in the Nineteenth Century, it managed to run it from just one building: Somerset House in London – with just four thousand mandarins. But, since that time, this legitimate band of administrators has ballooned into a monster, a bloated institution, free of any real democratic control – despite an elaborate pretence to the contrary – and an institution that has been allowed to enhance its true status as the ultimate self-serving organisation in Britain, dedicated to a continuous enrichment of its bureaucrats, an uninterrupted improvement in their general wellbeing – and an unremitting increase in their numbers – whatever might be happening in the real world beyond. So, if the government disappears... then so what? In fact, without interfering Ministers and inquisitorial committees to answer to, it just got easier and easier. So, by 2050, the Civil Service is now in a state of administrative nirvana, and all its bureaucrats in a state of near-permanent euphoria, because they are now all entirely free to go about their selfish ways with not even the threat of outside interference. And no. Not even from the Chinese. They haven’t been able to get an appointment yet...’

  ‘Yes, but they can’t have kept all those departments. I mean, you said that there were no armed services any more. So that must mean the MoD has gone as well.’

  ‘Sandra, Sandra, haven’t I just said that the Civil Service is impervious to whatever is happening in the real world around it? And surely you must see that if it can get on without a government, it can certainly get on without a military. Hell, why would it need that?’

  ‘Well, I was assuming that a Ministry of Defence needs some defence force to justify its existence...’

  ‘When has that ever been the case? Or let me put it another way. How much use do you think the MoD has been to the military – for years? Well, I’ll tell you, it’s been more or less irrelevant. Just as in 2050, the non-existence of a military has been irrelevant to the guys at the MoD.’

  ‘But what do they do then? How do they fill their time?’

  ‘All sorts of things. Think, for example, of “the military legacy”...’

  ‘Eh...?’

  ‘Well, all that haggling they’re having to do over the price of that last batch of Lancasters. And then there’s completing all those “effectiveness evaluation reports” – for that new mosquito repellent they used in Sierra Leone. You know, in the Nineties. Or how about finalising that study – the one they did on the environmental impact of tank training in Snowdonia – before the idea wa
s scrapped... And that other one they did on the impact of using Rochdale as a “live urban target” for the artillery, before that idea was scrapped as well. And it’s not just these legacy issues. Somebody’s got to conduct all those strategic studies, so we know precisely what dangers the nation faces, which, of course, we can no longer counter, on account of our not having even a pop-gun. So... work that some might say is entirely futile but, at the same time, work that others might say is nothing less than vital, particularly if these others are all those bureaucrats in the MoD.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘Nonsense! And I suppose contingency planning is nonsense as well...?’

  ‘Contingency planning?’

  ‘Yes, working out where to bugger off to if the nation is ever attacked. And I haven’t even mentioned all the admin they need to do. All that calculating of their own pay structure, working out their pension entitlements – and their annual bonuses – and then paying out all this stuff. I mean, somebody’s got to do it...’

  ‘Brian...’

  ‘No, I’m serious. In fact, apparently it was quite some time after the armed forces were disbanded before all the various sections of the MoD became aware of the news. And even now – in 2050 – there are still a few sections who believe that they are the subject of a simulated long-term “doomsday scenario”, where they are being assessed as to their capacity to improvise and adapt – just as soon as they’ve worked out what “improvise” and “adapt” actually mean...’

  ‘I’m not convinced. This all sounds highly improbable.’

  ‘OK. Well, if I can’t convince you of the tenacity of MoD civil servants to operate in a vacuum, how about those at the DHSS, which is now absolutely huge and which has adopted a brand new name that better describes its function in mid-century Britain. Yes, it is now known as the “Department of Anything You Want and More” – to underline its function as the “provider of first resort” and to recognise that it has now moved from a passive to an active role, in that it now targets every individual in the country to ensure that every individual receives some sort of benefit. Because that way, every individual is made a client of the state, even though the state doesn’t actually exist anymore. And more importantly, the DAYWM can get bigger than ever and support an ever-increasing number of fine civil servants.’

  ‘How can everybody get a benefit? That’s impossible.’

  ‘Not for the chaps at the DAYWM, it isn’t. To start with, there’s a whole slew of conventional benefits. Just think of all those we have now and then multiply by five. And then there’s another slew of the rather less conventional – to mop up all the buggers who might otherwise go benefit free...’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like the “climate compensation payment”, available to all those who are having to cope with the impact of climate change – which is essentially everybody other than the Scots. Or the “mobile-ity allowance” – to assist in the cost of running a mobile phone. Or the “apathy allowance”, which is available to all those who just can’t be bothered to make any effort to look after themselves. And that’s proving very popular indeed. Although I should point out that, taking account of the impoverished state of the economy in 2050, few of these benefits are what you might call generous, and are more an exercise in redistributing the minimal wealth that the nation still has. So like now really, only more so. But of course, for the DAYWM, that’s in no way an issue...’

  ‘Because it serves the principal purpose of keeping all the chaps at the DAYWM busy...’

  ‘You’re learning. Although I might take issue with the use of the word “busy”. Although, there again, I could instead just mention a couple of entirely new ministries, which, by 2050, have been created to recognise the changing face of Britain...’

  Sandra stroked the cover of her book again, and again Brian failed to notice.

  ‘Yes, there’s now a Ministry of Modern Antiquities, which is responsible for identifying and protecting some of the country’s new ancient sites and buildings, and particularly those that might be added to the itineraries of visiting Chinese and Samsungeans – who now turn up in their thousands to soak up the experience of “Ye Olde Solde-Offe England”. So, that might be anything from a closed-down factory, where, in days of yore, manufacturing was rumoured to have taken place, through redundant “academies”, where, long ago, education was rumoured to have taken place, to the Scottish Parliament Building, where, throughout its entire lifetime, nothing much of anything was rumoured to have taken place. And then there’s the Ministry of Sex, which was set up to recognise that sex was now the principal recreational pastime of the people, as, other than PlayStation and the like, that was the only recreation they could afford. And so here was a whole new trough of work for a whole new crop of bureaucrats, anything from collecting statistics on sex habits to providing a list of dos and don’ts in the bedroom, which, through an extensive programme of focus-group meetings, was eventually reduced to a list of just dos. Then, as well as a Home Office and a Foreign Office, it was thought that a Virtual Office might be a good idea – to acknowledge the fact that people were spending so much of their time in cyber space. And wouldn’t it...’

  ‘...be a good idea to decide that you’ve done the Civil Service to death?’

  Brian was taken aback. But he regrouped very quickly and responded to this unwelcome brake on his sermon by pleading with his wife – and essentially lying to her at the same time. Well, after all, his creative spirit was at stake here, and he could hardly let his innate sense of honesty and decency stand in the way of that. Hell, the literary literati back in Britain would never forgive him.

  ‘You’re right,’ he started. ‘I have pushed it a bit, haven’t I? But there is just a soupçon more on which I’d really welcome your thoughts. Because, you see, I haven’t yet addressed the law. And, as I’m sure you’ll recollect, you yourself bracketed lawyers with bureaucrats – when we touched on the subject last night. And my crystal ball was for both bureaucrats and their fellow travellers. So, as it really is just a soupçon, I was just hoping...’

  ‘Just a soupçon?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brian lied. ‘Just a soupçon.’

  ‘Oh... alright then. And let’s see whether you can make it a little more credible.’

  Brian ignored this implied criticism and set about his soupçon before Sandra could change her mind.

  ‘Right. Well, where I want to start is with another ministry...’

  ‘I thought...’

  ‘No. You thought right. Because, you see, this ministry is second in size only to the Ministry of Anything You Want and More, and it’s the Ministry of Justice. And yes, this used to be a very small ministry. But, of course, another feature of British life throughout the Twenty-first Century was the inexorable rise in the number of lawyers in this country, regardless of the dwindling need for their services. Because, as you can well imagine, a principally agrarian society has little complexity about it, and little need for civil lawyers. And in the new impoverished environment, people are too distracted by survival to bother too much with crime, unless, of course, it’s to get into prison – as I’ve already discussed. But anyway, back to the ministry. You see, lawyers have always been overrepresented in the corridors of power, and have thereby ensured that a constant stream of legislation has been generated to serve their needs. That is to say, to provide them with more and more work. And you can’t deny that, over the years, we’ve seen the fabrication of some of the most intricate long-winded laws imaginable, lots of other legislation that has nourished the rapid growth in a compensation culture – and all the work that comes with that – and even more legislation that has ensured that the self-serving justice system has become ever more complicated – and ever more remunerative for all the damn lawyers...’

  ‘Get a move on.’

  ‘Yes, well, by 2050, there are no corridors of power, are there? Because there’s no government. So what the lawyers needed to do was to inflate the Ministry
of Justice out of all recognition – into the behemoth it is now. And inflate it in such a way that its original brief – of justice – is now a sideline, and its main activity is to concern itself with whatever matters to the legal fraternity, whatever they need to maintain themselves in the style to which they’ve become accustomed. And remember, this legal fraternity is now huge. In fact, it has recently been calculated by the Ministry of Justice that the combined weight of all British lawyers is now equivalent to that of all the dinosaurs in Europe during the Jurassic period...’

  ‘You said a soupçon...’

  ‘Bear with me. Nearly there. And for the final stretch, a couple of examples of what the lawyers are now getting up to through their very own tame ministry. Like, for example, their insisting that it continually expands its programme of “legislative adaption and enhanced regulation”. Because you see, with no real legislature any more, it falls to the Ministry of Justice to adapt existing legislation – endlessly – and to enhance existing regulation – in the sense of dreaming up even more of it every day. But not for the sake of it. Oh no. But for the sake of the lawyers. You see, the process of adapting legislation inevitably means elaborating it or simply complicating it, with a consequent exponential increase in the opportunities for confusion, misinterpretation and plain downright impenetrability. All the sort of stuff that is simply manna from heaven for the lawyers, as is that stream of unbounded and totally unnecessary – other than for lawyers – enhanced regulation...’

  ‘That’s yer soupçon...’