Crystal Balls and Moroccan Walls

by David Fletcher

  Brian just smiled and ploughed on.

  ‘Then there is the increased incidence of judicial enquiries – at an ever increasing rate. Yes, these enquiries have always been a rich source of pickings for the legal profession. But what were once “hand crafted” enquiries, tailored to meet a particular matter of public interest, are now mass-produced – to meet the particular matter of lawyer enrichment on an unprecedented scale. And it’s not an easy job, dreaming up large, long-lasting public enquiries at the rate of two a week. Indeed, some of the recent ones have begun to betray the bogus nature of the whole exercise – and it can’t be concealed. I mean, who really wants a public enquiry into the impact of Marmite on home-made conserves, or one that looks at the desirability or otherwise of establishing a national register of piano tuners? Or how about the last one, which is examining the role of arbitration in a post-apocalyptic, utopian society – as seen from the perspective of neo-Freudian tokenism plus VAT?’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  Brian grinned.

  ‘No, I’ve just thought of another.’

  ‘Christ...’

  ‘Yes. It concerns the procedures in court, and finally addressing the fact that they are far too streamlined. Or at least they are in the eyes of the lobby group who have brought this issue to the attention of the Ministry. That, of course, is the lobby group made up of representatives from The Law Society, The Bar Council, The Association of Court Clerks, The Cabal of Court Interpreters, The Guild of Official Court Hangers-on – and the judges’ own association: “The Big-wigs”. And hell, with representatives from so many disparate bodies, they must have a point...’

  ‘Have you, Brian? Like a final one?’

  Brian really had stretched it as far as it would go and he knew it. He therefore nodded graciously to his wife and embarked on his summing up.

  ‘So yes. Lawyers, by 2050, have cemented themselves into the fabric of society like never before. And if you’ve ever seen the results of pouring wet cement onto even the toughest of fabrics, you can begin to appreciate just what a mess that’s created. There are now interminable disputes requiring a legal solution, solutions only ever reached after interminable – and costly – delays, interminable public enquiries that serve no real purpose, and, on top of all that, an interminable increase in the likelihood of never being further than ten feet from a lawyer wherever you are in the country. Lawyer infestation would not be an inappropriate term. Although more appropriate terms can be supplied if required – for what is no less than a bloody plague of the things. Yes, in 2050, lawyers – and their civil-servant partners in legalised crime – are omnipresent. In some parts of Britain, the two of them together outnumber the productive members of society by more than three to one, and in central London they are a virtual monoculture. Tripping over a real worker there is now as likely as tripping over a Puritan Pope. Which reminds me...’

  Sandra jumped in.

  ‘I don’t care. Whatever it reminds you of, I don’t want to hear it. No more than you want to hear from your so-called sounding-board...’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Well, all this... all this stuff, and you haven’t paused once. You haven’t given me the slightest chance to comment or to criticise or to make even the slightest observation. Your idea of a sounding-board is more like a sponge; sit there and absorb it – and don’t, whatever you do, reflect any views...’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes, ah. And, for what it’s worth, I can’t find too much wrong with what you’ve said, and it may even be an accurate picture of mid-century Britain. But it isn’t very subtle, is it? And, even with a huge leap of imagination, I can’t believe that too many people will be prepared to buy it. And I mean your idea, not your book. And, as for the lawyers and civil servants... well, it’d be beyond their comprehension, even if you paid them a fee or promised to double their pensions. It’s a shame, really. More people need to understand just how over-lawyered we are – already – and why you see so many of them in shopping arcades, flogging their so-called services. And everybody ought to know that if we could run an empire with just four thousand civil servants, then right now we could probably reduce the civil service by about 90%. And if you retained just the good ones, nobody would notice the difference – except, maybe, in how much tax they were paying...’

  During this assessment by his wife, Brian’s expression had risen from the crestfallen to the greatly-relieved. Sandra had thwacked him with her sounding-board, but then she had flapped it. She had waved it gently before him to waft air around his head – and to revive him. She wasn’t saying that his portrayal of the future was brilliant or even rational, but she was admitting it was credible – and provocative. After all, hadn’t it just provoked her into corroborating his views on the egregious nature of all our bureaucrats and lawyers? And what more could he want? Well, just one thing. And he reckoned now was just the right time to put in his request...

  ‘Sorry and thank you,’ he started. ‘Guilty as charged. Contrite and penitent – if mildly tautological. And determined to do better tomorrow – when we discuss...’

  ‘Tomorrow! When we discuss! Jeez, I don’t know how...’

  ‘You’ll enjoy it,’ interrupted Brian. ‘It follows on from tonight’s little piece. And it concerns... well, let’s just say that as much as bureaucrats and lawyers are smothering society by 2050, they’re still playing second fiddle to the real maestro, the real superstar of our brand new orchestra of our brand new dystopian age. And therefore I have a new crystal ball.’

  Sandra looked down at her book one more time. Then she looked back at her husband.

  ‘I’m not going to ask. Because not knowing what this new crystal ball contains might just help me to get through it. But it better be worth it, and you’d better use me as a sounding-board and not just as a sponge. Or I might just seek legal advice to sort you out. Or I might even report you to the Ministry of Sex, just to let them know that you’re no longer an active participant – if you get my meaning. And that’s not a warning, that’s a threat...’

  But it wasn’t really, because it came with a reluctant smile. And Brian was now confident that he could continue with his treatise on the future of Britain for at least one further day – and possibly until the end of the tour.

  And, all being well, even without the involvement of the MoS...

  5.

  A friend of Brian had once told him that, for a handful of people he really detested, he could always console himself with the knowledge that every day they had to wake up next to someone who was equally detestable. So, for example, Harriet Harman had to confront the reality of Jack Dromey every morning, Ed Balls had to reconcile himself to a daily helping of the saintly Yvette Cooper, and John Bercow had to brace himself for whatever the silly Sally had in mind for the next twenty-four hours – with, of course, a vice-versa situation in each case. And Brian’s friend had convinced himself that this daily reminder of with whom they had chosen to share their life must have amounted to a living purgatory for all concerned. Brian had understood his point, and, indeed, was immediately put in mind of a certain Tony and Cherie, but he wasn’t nearly as convinced. In the first place, if these sorts of guys were so blind to their own offensive nature, how could they possibly recognise it in their partners? And, in the second place, by attributing anything like normal reactions and emotions to these sorts of characters, one was entering into the realms of fantasy. And, in the third place, it was all rather rude. After all, how would his friend feel if somebody else made the same observation about him and his wife?

  Well, his friend wouldn’t be moved. And what’s more, despite putting such a compelling counter-case, Brian had never quite forgotten his friend’s assertion. Because, each morning, he was fortunate enough to wake up next to someone who could never be described as detestable – and never was. And it was the same this new Moroccan morning. Over in that other single bed, snuffling gently, was the light of his life, the girl of his dreams, and the lon
g-suffering spouse who was still prepared to listen to all his interminable ramblings after all this time, and who would still plough her way through these same ramblings when they were recorded in a book. And furthermore, she didn’t look anything like Harriet Harman, she sounded nothing like Yvette Cooper and, most important of all, she couldn’t ever approach the behaviour of Sally Bercow, even if her very life depended on it...

  She could, however, sound just a tiny bit impatient, as when her husband was still combing his hair when it was clearly time to leave the room and make their way to the bus. For it was now after breakfast and, within just five minutes, the minibuses would be setting off again with, aboard them, a lot of still very tired Nature-seekers, this time to drive south and then west and then even further west. Erfoud was the extremity of their desert itinerary, and from now on it would be a very long, circuitous trip to the coast – with frequent stops, and one after just fifteen minutes.

  Brian hadn’t realised that there would be such an early interruption to their journey when he’d boarded the minibus, and had therefore been looking forward to a bit of “stare time”, where he could just gaze out of the window and take in the surroundings. So, although he had a brief opportunity to register that, after just a couple of miles, the immediate barren vista had been overtaken by the spectacle of an unending spread of date-palms, he was soon having to deal with the realisation that the minibus had left the main road and was now on a road to nowhere. Or, more precisely, it was following the other minibus down a road of questionable quality, that very soon took it through a truly medieval-looking village – into a stretch of Morocco that might best be described as beautiful. And not just ordinary beautiful, because its particular beauty involved pristine sand-dunes, gorgeous sand-coloured cliffs glowing in the morning sun and, at the top of one of these cliffs, the home of a giant eagle owl!

  It proved a really nice walk over the dunes, but, unfortunately, the giant eagle owl was at the opticians or somewhere, and therefore not on his doorstep. No matter, because the tour leaders had another giant eagle owl, one they’d prepared earlier, and this one was on his doorstep – on another cliff some miles away and on the other side of that medieval village. Yes, it took over half an hour to find him – and the fending off of some persistent fossil sellers who had materialised out of thin air – but the Nature-seekers were treated to a pretty good view of this magnificent bird. And definitely a better view than the view of a perching Barbary falcon on the next cliff along, which amounted to no more than two distant indistinct wingtips that, for all Brian knew, could just as well have been two appropriately coloured pieces of discarded litter. They didn’t even move.

  Still, the tickers in the party were happy, and this sighting of the last two inches of falcon wing feathers may have sustained them through the next stage of the trip, which was a stage unadorned with any scenery approaching any sort of interest – and was basically just a dusty, empty plain. Good news then that there was coffee to be had on the rooftop of a roadside cafe (which was the highpoint of the cafe in more ways than one), and then, after another two hours of scenery-free landscape, that it was time to stop for lunch. This one was in a road-side “oasis”, and consisted of more chopped-up cucumber and the like and more oversized buns. And the reality was that the “oasis” was no more appealing than the diced salad, and one could have benefited from some water and the other from some wine. But no matter. It was soon over and the trip further west recommenced.

  It stopped again where the road finally crossed their old friend, the Dadès River – for a futile attempt to find some birds. And then Brian’s heart nearly stopped – on more than one occasion – when the minibuses entered the Tizi n’Tinififft Pass. This pass over the Anti-Atlas Mountains was a close relative of the Tizi n’Tichka Pass over the High-Atlas Mountains that had been experienced just four days before. But this pass had a few notable differences. In the first place, the weather was different, so the vertiginous drops were now not concealed by a curtain of rain. Then the speed of Brian’s minibus was different; it was technically-speaking “excessive”, especially on the downward leg of the pass, as its driver attempted to keep up with the minibus in front. And finally, it was a “fate-free” pass. Try as he may, Brian just couldn’t conjure up his usual reliance on fate – in the face of extreme peril – and could only believe that his next book would never see the light of day. Its first four chapters would be strewn, metaphorically and unpublished, about some slope of this pass – along with his body parts, those of his non-detestable wife, those of the other Nature-seekers and, of course, with the horribly crumpled remains of a bus...

  But inevitably they made it, until, a few miles to the north of the pass, they encountered a whole series of slopes strewn with something rather more mundane. For here they were coming to the southern approaches of Ouarzazate (they had looped back to the home of the Moroccan film industry), and here was the evidence of Ouarzazate’s inability to deal with its rubbish. Brian was something of an expert on the world’s litter by this stage of his life, and wasn’t too reserved in making clear his despair as to its ubiquity and its impact on the environment. But this was a new low in the annals of litter-disfigurement of the landscape. It was everywhere. It must have covered hundreds of acres. And, with the help of the wind and the aerodynamic qualities of witches’ knickers, that may even have been thousands of acres. He could only think that unless there was a plan to make a long series of films in a filth-ridden future, where a litter-strewn desert was an essential backdrop, then those film studios up the road might be looking forward to some very lean years. And even if there was no such plan, Ouarzazate could certainly look forward to no more than a grotesquely blighted hinterland for the rest of its days.

  It wasn’t much better at the barrage. This was the same barrage that the Nature-seekers had visited in the ice-age. But it was a slightly different part of it – nearer to Ouarzazate itself – and therefore more popular with the litter-louts – and considerably more niffy. That said, there were an amazing number of birds about, and Brian realised he was quite enjoying himself. Although, in all honesty, standing in the shower at their next hotel, anticipating a glass of real alcohol, probably had the edge. And then a real tajine-free diner – with really good food – put the seal on it. For tonight, at least, Brian could only conclude that creature comforts could sometimes win hands down when pitted against any number of creature sightings. Maybe, next year, he should try a spa...

  Before then, however, there was his creativity to attend to – and his darling wife to assail with more of his nonsense. And now that they were back in their room he could start. Or, at least, he hoped he could start...

  ‘Errh... Sandra,’ he began cautiously. ‘Are we still on?’

  ‘For what?’ came a suspicious-sounding reply.

  ‘For the next crystal ball. For the next bit of the book.’

  ‘Oh, that...’

  ‘Yes. You said you’d do it, you know, if I treated you like a proper sounding-board and not like a ...’

  ‘Brian, I’ve been waiting all day for it. So why don’t you start? Why don’t you tell me all about... what was it? Some sort of maestro or something? Or am I remembering a nightmare?’

  ‘No, you’re right. I did talk about a maestro, a maestro institution, something that has set itself at the top of British society – above even the lawyers and the bureaucrats – and quite independent of the Chinese.’

  ‘Am I supposed to guess what this institution is, or are you going to tell me?’

  Sandra looked mildly peeved. She clearly wanted Brian to get on with it. But Brian had other ideas and, in particular, he wanted to start his address with a question, a question that would seem to ignore Sandra’s query completely. And that’s exactly what he did.

  ‘Tell me. What characterises a successful religion?’

  ‘Ah, you hadn’t mentioned religion, had you? So that’s it. Britain is now some sort of theocracy...’

  ‘Well, just
bear with me for a few more seconds – and answer my question. What characterises a successful religion?’

  Sandra frowned, but responded grudgingly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Errh... well, they tend to provide a sort of guide, don’t they? They tell people how to live their lives.’

  ‘Yes. And what else?’

  ‘Well, for a lot of people, they provide a great deal of comfort and reassurance. And I suppose you could say that, for a lot more people, they become a source of real salvation, something they come to depend on...’

  ‘Spot on,’ interrupted Brian. ‘They have the ability to become the very focus of people’s lives – and that, of course, allows them to assume to themselves the sort of power that few other Earthly institutions can even dream of. And they use that power, don’t they? Just think of how proscriptive most religions are – in terms of what their followers can and can’t do. And how they all seem to require from these followers an almost unconditional subservience to their message.’

  ‘Yep,’ responded Sandra. ‘I’ve got all that. But I’m not sure...’

  ‘What current non-religious organisation in Britain might be said to share all these same characteristics? And I do mean all of them.’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Yes you have,’ insisted Brian.

  Sandra frowned again. She was thinking hard. And then finally her eyes lit up with the light of realisation.

  ‘The National Health Service! That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it? And you’re saying... well, I’m not sure what you’re saying...’

  ‘What I’m saying, Sandra, is that we have in Britain now a vast institution that enjoys the unequivocal support of the British population, one that is effectively untouchable by the government or by anybody else – and has to be indulged no matter how much it costs – and one that is effectively a temporal religion already. And one, I might say, that has a lot more followers than all the more conventional religions taken together. So, as the state falls apart – and the government disappears – it’s almost inevitable that the NHS takes centre stage, until eventually it becomes the pre-eminent feature of British life. Indeed, it becomes nothing less than the nation’s religion proper, set apart above all other institutions and more and more an overtly religious organisation, having honed and expanded its religious credentials on its way to the top. So that by 2050, the sacred cow of Britain has become its No. 1 sacred institution. Not only has it grown into an entity that is so large that it is visible from space, but it is also one that is now so central to people’s lives that it is the most powerful in the land, and unquestionably the most holy. Forget Catholicism and the Church of England – and all those other more exotic religions. All they can offer is eternal life after death, whereas the National Health Service can now offer something akin to eternal life while you’re still alive. You can keep on being patched up and refurbished almost indefinitely – even if you’re a sinner. Yes, even if you’re one of the many people in this land who fail to follow the NHS’s teaching quite as closely as you should...’