STANDING ROOM ONLY
I
want to take this opportunity here and now to give you my personal assurance
that lessons will be learnt. Indeed, I can confidently say that lessons are in
the process of being learnt as I speak. A far-reaching across-the-board enquiry
will be instituted with rigorous monitoring of outcomes, and robust measures
will be rolled out to ensure that this kind of thing never, and I mean never,
happens again. Let us not, however, point the finger of blame. Recrimination
and name-calling will get us nowhere. I am of course prepared to take full
responsibility for these events – events which I do sincerely regret. Within
certain limits I am even willing to apologise, although, as even the most
biased commentator must acknowledge, decision-making at this level is a matter
of collective responsibility.
Moreover, one cannot supervise,
or micro-manage, every action carried
out by one’s subordinates. Delegation is essential in efficient organisations,
and I wish to state that despite our current difficulties I still have the
fullest confidence in my team. I can say, moreover, that, far from dividing us,
recent events have brought me and my colleagues very much closer together –
indeed we now stand shoulder to shoulder, with very little separating us. I
have always felt that we should avoid developing a bunker mentality. We should
stand up for what we believe in, and face the world.
But I fear, nonetheless, that
our present bunker has become unendurably hot. The generator broke down an hour
ago and the air is growing fetid. Several of my colleagues have already
collapsed and the PM is on his knees and appears, incongruously, to be praying.
Time is getting short, so let
me set the record straight.
First of all I want to state,
here and now, that I have no regrets regarding the peace treaty we signed last
year with the political representatives of the Taliban Revolutionary Army. The
conflict in Afghanistan was not going well and the attrition rate among our
forces had become politically unacceptable, quite apart from the ever-present
threat from militants at home. Our
priority was to disengage with dignity. The fact that we ceded large areas of
the south and east and – let us not beat about the bush – of the north and west
of the country to our former opponents should not disguise our very real
achievement in bringing about a peaceful withdrawal. In any case, it might be
asked, by what right do we seek to impose our own preferred system of
government on other races and cultures? I myself have always found these
neo-colonial interventions distasteful. Despite some carping from the more
retrogressive elements of the military – that we risked re-constituting a
terrorist state in the Middle East – we carried through the whole programme
without a single British casualty. And I want unequivocally to state that
despite our current setbacks, I am convinced we did the right thing. We have
been far too ready to follow the American lead and blunder into other parts of
the world, creating more problems than we solve. We made that mistake in Iraq
and look where it got us. No wonder the rest of the world detests the
‘Anglo-Saxon conspiracy’ as I believe the French call it.
True, we were obliged to make
certain political adjustments at home to achieve a peaceful settlement. Our
Taliban friends drove a hard bargain! I do not deny that the decision to
introduce Sharia Law in certain parts of the United Kingdom was not universally
popular. Various people on the fringes of public life – extremist parties,
dyed-in-the-wool ‘Little Englanders’, impractical dreamers hankering after a
lost age – claimed it was not ‘part of the British way of life’ – whatever that
might mean! I regard such mealy-mouthed objections as narrow-minded at best and
unacceptably bigoted at worst. This was why we introduced the subsequent
legislation making it a hate crime to criticise the government over its
handling of such sensitive ethnic and cultural issues. It was even claimed by
detractors that certain parts of our cities were becoming ‘no-go’ areas –
particularly for unveiled women. These disgraceful slurs we treated with the
contempt which they merited. There is no reason why the majority ethnic group
should not respect, and where necessary defer to, the religious sensibilities
of minorities. If this means that one has to cover one’s head or body in
certain districts, so be it. As the Archbishop pointed out, there is no room in
these islands for those who claim cultural or monotheistic hegemony. The idea
that one faith or ethical system has a monopoly of the truth is rightly
abhorrent to all thinking people.
One should not forget, either,
that expanding minorities have a political voice. In order to keep the electors
of our inner cities ‘on board’ we have had to ensure that their views are
weighed in the forum of Parliament. We live, after all, in a democracy and
every shade of opinion must be accommodated. To facilitate the smooth passage
of the Afghanistan (Disengagement and Investment) Bill with its accompanying
grants of financial aid to our former enemies we needed the votes of certain
key MPs, and political concessions had inevitably to be made. I freely admit
that not all of these were entirely consistent with our personal
preferences. It was, I know, with some
initial hesitation that the Home Secretary, together with the Archbishop in his
ecumenical role, attended the first public flogging – which was, it must be
said, more of a ritualistic than a punitive exercise – in Leeds Town Hall. But,
as his Grace said on that occasion, and I fully concur, ‘Who are we to judge or
condemn?’ The English have been cordially loathed throughout history for their
brutality to the races they have colonised and oppressed. We can hardly
complain if those abused peoples have learned from us! Anyway, nobody is forced
to watch what might be seen in some quarters as a rather over-exuberant
expression of cultural diversity.
We Anglo-Saxons, indeed, have
much to be ashamed of in our history, and it is not as though the progressive
element has not tried to put things right. After the Second World War we
planned a fresh start – a classless, collectivist society, with workers
re-housed in new, hygienic, publically-owned flats served by community centres,
birth control clinics and co-operatives. We knew how to organise in those days and the English masses should have been
content. Instead, they contrived, in ever-growing numbers, to turn away from
the future, aspiring to Middle England suburban mediocrity. They took out
mortgages, and acquired furniture on easy payment plans. On Sundays they
polished their little Noddy cars in a million privet-hedged driveways. In short
they bought enthusiastically into the whole nauseating capitalist-consumerist
fantasy. Large numbers slavered fawningly over the monarchy and many joined that
servile, sentimental association of aristocracy-worshipers, the National Trust.
We fought a rearguard action – in the ‘60s we legislated for new social
freedoms to break the moral tyranny of the insular, self-satisfied nuclear
family. We succeeded in eliminating elitist attitudes and bourgeois patterns of
self-restraint from the educational system. Most effective, perhaps, was the
clean break with the stultifying English cultural consensus which we achieved
with our mass migration policy. And in recent years I can say with some pride
that the project has shown real signs of fruition.
But I digress. Let me return to
more recent and pressing issues.
I can confirm, here and now,
that our Afghan exit strategy was a political master-stroke. The masses – I should
say the voters – rewarded us with a gratifying lead in the opinion polls. At
the same time we, in Culture, had a fruitful idea, or so it seemed at the time.
We felt it appropriate to celebrate our ‘victory for peace,’ as the PM rather
happily put it, with a tangible symbol of rapprochement. A work of art,
presented to the new de facto Afghan
government, would fittingly cement future relations. The question was: what
form should the gift take? I ordered a study to be made. The results were
somewhat equivocal. The Taliban, as my team discovered, were not wholly
enthusiastic about representations of the human figure. Thus our first idea – a
striking tableau in stressed industrial concrete of ‘Colonialism Overthrown by
the Enslaved’ – was deemed inappropriate.
Another less apposite proposal of ‘Women’s Power Through Role Subversion’
was dismissed out of hand. Apparently, however, no such cultural sensitivities
constrained physical depictions of the animal kingdom. This gave us our idea.
We needed a concept relevant to the economic and geographical realities of the
region. What about a monumental and dynamic sculpture of a goat rampant? The
more we considered the idea the more we liked it. It would express energy,
truculence and virility – qualities admired, as we knew, by our erstwhile foes.
There was only one artist in
London who could handle such an aesthetically and politically sensitive
commission – Random Sturm. His current show at the Hayward with its challenging
assemblages of jellyfish in formaldehyde was drawing large crowds. It was,
however recognised that the transport and preservation from London to Kabul of
a goat in a tank of formaldehyde presented insuperable problems. With some
difficulty we persuaded Sturm to sculpt the creature at three times life size
in black polyurethane resin. His initial, and I have to say, capricious,
objections to the project were mitigated by the promise of a knighthood and by
the assurance that, prior to its despatch, his work would be displayed on the
sculpture plinth in Trafalgar Square, temporarily replacing Damien Hirst’s florescent fibreglass foetus, and this
appeared to satisfy his amour propre.
It is one of the less agreeable responsibilities of my role in Culture to be
obliged to flatter and cajole the more egotistical denizens of the art world –
but that is neither here nor there.
I was not at all sure that
Sturm would rise to the occasion, but I have to admit that, when I viewed the
new work in his studio, my fears were fully assuaged. The goat, massive and
proud, stood some twelve feet high. Its forelegs jutted out at a pugnacious
slant and its demeanour was disconcertingly human. This gave me a momentary
pang of anxiety – would our Taliban friends see it, perhaps, as too
anthropomorphic? But the creature’s head was perfect in every respect. The
branching horns conveyed a menacing, primordial energy. The eyes, in
particular, glowed with malicious intensity. It seemed to me a perfect
encapsulation of the sublimated anger and spontaneity of oppressed peoples
throughout history. I was confident that
it would be well-received.
Indeed, my hopes were more than
fulfilled. The lone London representative of the newly-constituted Taliban
Cultural Foundation gave ‘Black Goat’ his unqualified approval. He did, however,
make a particularly interesting proposal.
The Afghan economy was currently buoyant. Due to the generous seed
capital which the British government had granted to the new regime, and
together with the enterprise shown by local farmers using sustainable technologies,
a record Afghan poppy crop had ensued. The country had, for the first time in
its history, achieved a positive economic balance.
As a consequence of this
gratifying development, the cultural envoy was in a position to make a
remarkably generous offer. If the Black Goat could be transported to Kabul, the
new government would have it coated in pure gold, thus marrying the aspirations
of the people of Great Britain with those of the Taliban revolution. The end
product would be stupendous and would undoubtedly cement Anglo-Afghan relations
for a century. After the transformation it would be sent back to London for
display in a prominent location – persuading the British people of the wisdom
and benevolence of their own government.
I was astonished and
delighted. The political benefits could
scarcely be overestimated. This would silence the carping critics of our Middle
East policies. There was the further consideration that, owing to the
unfortunate episode of the Chief Whip and the pole dancer, the government’s
popularity had once more ebbed and a tactical distraction at this juncture
would please the PM. I hurried back to Whitehall and instructed my department
to arrange immediate shipment of the sculpture to Kabul.
Thus it was that, three months
later, I and my team stood in Westminster Hall gazing in awe as the packaging
was removed and we were able to marvel at the Golden Goat in its transformed
guise. Around us a hundred flashlights crackled and flared, scintillating on
the gilded surface with shimmering glory. Beyond the doors a dense queue
stretched for more than half a mile round Parliament Square, for the project
had succeeded, as had few artistic events in recent years, in riveting the
public imagination. If the great figure had impressed in its original black
finish, when seen irradiated with a sheen of flawless gold the effect was
overwhelming. It exuded an aura of barbaric splendour and the lustrous head and
almost incandescently caprid eyes transfixed the viewer. As the first members
of the public entered the hall and were allowed to approach gasps were audible
and hands stretched out from behind the roped-off barrier as though mesmerised.
Two or three of the earliest visitors dropped to their knees and gazed up at
the great beast, seemingly in rapture and oblivious of their surroundings. Indeed many of those who saw it in subsequent
days came away claiming to have undergone a transfiguring experience. Some, in
fact, were so overwhelmed that they claimed to experience mild symptoms of
faintness and dizziness in its presence. One rather curious phenomenon was that
clocks and watches in its vicinity tended to run slow or stop, but an expert
concluded that this unusual effect was almost certainly due to the specialised
electro-magnetic plating process it had undergone in Kabul.
There was no doubt in my mind
that the Golden Goat was destined for unprecedented celebrity. We planned a
preview display for ten days in Westminster Hall, after which it would receive
a ceremonial public unveiling by the Prime Minister in Trafalgar Square in full
view of the world’s media. Meanwhile, public excitement was growing apace.
Queues extended down Whitehall for more than a mile. Scaled-down replicas of
the beast were manufactured and bought in prodigious numbers. A 24-carat gold
Harrods limited edition priced at £25,000 sold out in a matter of hours. The
Archbishop himself gave it unqualified approval. The Golden Goat he averred
‘served in a very real sense to hypostatize the frangible ontology of ecumenical
dialogue within a context of trans-faith interlocution.’ There were calls by
more progressive clergymen to replace the hackneyed symbols of our traditional
churches with this more inclusive and relevant idiom. Those who objected to
this scheme on scriptural grounds were reproved by the Bishop of Hampstead. The
goat symbol, he announced, was now happily decontaminated of its pagan
associations which themselves dated from the superstitious age of Christianity
when less enlightened people placed credulous faith in the primitive notion of
an immanent God and feared what they termed the ‘devil’. The function of the Church today was to
accommodate the demands of the Rainbow Society and to this end no more fitting
emblem could be conceived.
The apotheosis of my own
success came when I received an unexpected call from the PM. He wished me, he
said, to attend a meeting of the full Cabinet on the morning of the unveiling,
during which he would formally thank me in front of his colleagues for this
most felicitous of public initiatives. Opinion polls showed that the government
was enjoying an unprecedented level of popularity to which my own efforts had
contributed in no small part. I was, as may be imagined, elated. My political
star appeared to be rising. A Cabinet post did not seem beyond the bounds of
possibility, and the PM hinted as much.
I duly set out for Downing
Street on the morning of the great day. As my driver turned off Pall Mall the
crowds were flowing along Whitehall and up towards Trafalgar Square. There was
a festive spirit abroad and on the far side of the square I could make out the
massive, enshrouded figure of the Golden Goat on its plinth, awaiting the PM’s
arrival and the subsequent unveiling ceremony.
When I was ushered into the
Cabinet Room the Prime Minister was in ebullient mood. Indeed, I have rarely
known him so expansive. He greeted me, a mere junior minister, with an
enthusiasm which was more than flattering. As the morning’s business reached
its conclusion he held up his hand for silence. ‘Colleagues, on this memorable
day, and as we depart for the ceremony in Trafalgar Square, I should like to
detain you for a moment longer in order to express both my pleasure and
satisfaction at this historic government achievement and to propose a vote of
thanks to our energetic and resourceful Minister for Culture, who, with a
vision all too rare in the sphere of politics, has brought about a significant
….’
At this moment the telephone on
his desk buzzed emphatically. A Downing Street aid lifted the receiver, spoke a
few words, and turned to the PM. ‘There seems to be a personal call for you,
Prime Minister, from someone by the name of Marcus K. Waterbucket, who claims
to be a Deputy Assistant Director of the CIA in Washington. He realises that
contact at this level is something of a breach of protocol and would normally,
as he puts it, “escalate the interface communication conduit to Deputy Director
echelon status” but assures me that the matter is rather urgent. Will you speak
to him?’
Clearly the PM was not pleased
at the interruption. He took the receiver with a gesture of restrained
irritation and responded laconically to what was apparently a somewhat garbled
transatlantic narrative. However, as the colloquy proceeded his manner changed.
‘A terror training camp in Lower Swat? You carried out an Extraordinary
Rendition – via East Grinstead? Really, Mr Waterbucket, we have made it clear
on a number of occasions that Her Majesty’s Government deplores these
supra-legal initiatives. We value our partnership with the United States
security services highly, but the British public and media….. you learned what? They put it where? A megaton, it’s
believed. Ah, yes I see. And one can assume that this intelligence is
substantiated? Yes, yes, I quite understand. No, no, I appreciate that. Thank
you, Mr Waterbucket, thank you very much. I am extremely obliged to you.
Goodbye. ‘
He replaced the receiver and
turned to his assembled ministers. For a moment he seemed bereft of speech –
then his customary urbanity returned. ‘Members of the Cabinet, I have just
received rather an extraordinary communication from the American government. It
seems that they have recently ‘lifted’ an Afghani citizen from north-western
Pakistan, and he has been induced to reveal certain rather disturbing facts
relating to Great Britain. Apparently
the CIA have repeatedly taken him ‘water-skiing’ or ‘surf boarding’ – I forget
which exactly. I am pleased to note, incidentally, that our American friends
seem at last to have realised that conciliatory methods of interrogation are
always more fruitful than coercive ones. By using the universal medium of sport
they seem to have induced the man – and I use the trenchant figure employed by
my American interlocutor – “to sing like a linnet.” Unfortunately the
information he supplied is of a rather disquieting nature. It would appear that
during its stay in Afghanistan the Golden Goat was covertly smuggled across the
border into Pakistan and that a thermo-nuclear device of some sort may have
been fitted into its interior cavity. This intelligence is of course
unconfirmed and remains top secret, but the matter has become somewhat pressing
due to the device apparently having been timed to detonate at 2PM today which
is…’ the Prime Minister consulted his watch ‘approximately seven minutes from
now, at the precise moment, in fact, that I am scheduled to mount the podium in
Trafalgar Square. What is more, the Taliban cultural envoy seems, inexplicably,
to have disappeared and cannot be contacted. I doubt if there will be time to
defuse the bomb – if bomb there is – but if anyone has the Chief of National
Security’s phone number they might give him a ring on the off-chance. I think
that covers everything, ladies and gentlemen. The time has come for decisive action.
This is no occasion for evasiveness. The levers of government must continue to
function. The British media will expect us to show firm resolution.’
I like to remember the PM in
those final moments – cool, incisive, clear-thinking. I realised suddenly why he had achieved such
pre-eminence in his field. He rose from his seat and stood erect, every inch
the resolute statesman:
‘I therefore move that this
assembly repairs without further delay to the Cabinet nuclear bunker below
Horse Guards Parade where a comprehensive, rigorous and wide-ranging policy
review will be instituted with regard to an impending national security alert.
The key is normally kept by the Defence Secretary, I‘m told.’
After a hurried and slightly
fractious exit from the rear door of Number Ten we made our way through the
back garden and across Horse Guards to the side of a building of anonymous
design where a pair of heavy but inconspicuous green doors gave access to the
underground bunker complex. This, at first sight, proved to be smaller than we
had anticipated. It had been built in the 1970s, the PM explained rather
grudgingly, for six occupants only; specifically, and in descending order of
importance, the Queen, the Mistress of the Bedchamber, the Archbishop of
Canterbury, the Keeper of the Privy Purse, the Chief of the Defence Staff and
the Prime Minister.
‘I myself have not seen the
accommodation’ he went on, ‘but I understand that the seating arrangements are
limited. We may, therefore, be obliged to emulate our fellow citizens who
travel by train at peak times, and – ha – remain on our feet, until this
crisis, which I hope will prove to be merely temporary, is resolved. ‘
There was no doubt that for the
thirty of us who crowded down the steps the facilities were less than ideal.
The two small principal rooms were sparsely furnished with a flimsy writing
desk, a scattering of angular chairs of Nordic design, four narrow bunks bolted
to the wall of the first room and two slightly more commodious beds in the
inner chamber. There was a single bathroom and a kitchen containing a store
cupboard, while, inside a cramped alcove, an archaic red telephone, a telex
machine and a set of London directories completed the amenities.
We packed into the two chambers
and arranged ourselves as best we could. The PM gazed about him without
enthusiasm. As soon as the outer doors were bolted he sank into a vacant chair,
and turned to the Defence Secretary. ‘Peter, this is your show, I think. I look
to you to assume command.’
The Minister thus directed
pushed his way through the throng of his Cabinet colleagues and picked up the
telephone receiver. ’Certainly, Prime Minister; I will contact General Fielding
at the War Office – or perhaps I should still call it the Defence Ministry at
this stage – without delay. Plan ‘Storm Vanquish’ will be activated at once.’
He dialled a single number and
spoke tersely into the mouthpiece. ‘Hello, Antelope One calling. Give me Green
Lemon immediately. This is a Level Five alert. And all further signals on this
line must be encrypted forthwith. Switch to Channel Zero Nine Zero – in exactly
ten seconds from now. What? No, no, no. I want General Fielding. FIELDING. F
for Freddy I – E – L – what’s that? Who is this speaking? Would I like what? No, do not want a complimentary aroma therapy massage either now or in the
future. An unrepeatable offer? Yes, yes, I am sure it is. I’ve no doubt you
would, but this is all highly irregular. We are in the middle of a national
emergency and you are – quite illegally – interfering with a military command
network. I must insist that you clear the line at once. ‘
He gave a short cough and
brushed a bead of moisture from his brow. ‘We seem to have exposed a minor
technical flaw in our crisis communication system, Prime Minister. I will try
to make contact on another channel.’
The PM sighed reproachfully.
‘It would seem that a stress test of the entire defence infrastructure is long
overdue, Peter. See to it will you, and have a report on my desk by Friday at
the latest. What? Oh yes, I take your point. Very well, by Monday morning then.
I cannot for the life of me understand how, or indeed why….. ’
He broke off. An eerie and
resounding humming was reverberating round the walls of the bunker. It rose in
intensity and became a shuddering vibration which drove up through the floor
and the soles of the feet until it seemed to hammer at the core of the brain.
The lights died briefly before reviving dimly and spasmodically. Dust as fine
as talcum descended from the padded ceiling and filled the room with a mist
through which pale ministerial faces loomed spectrally. No one moved or spoke.
After thirty seconds or so the manifestation faded. A cataleptic stillness ensued.
The PM is the first to break
the silence. ‘I think I can say, ladies and gentlemen, that we have received
clear confirmation that the security assessment from our colleagues in the CIA
was broadly accurate. Regarded as a foreign policy initiative, therefore, our
Afghan disengagement strategy and overtures to the Taliban would seem to have
been less fruitful than we hoped. No doubt the media will, as usual, attempt to
give it a negative slant. Let us not, however, be downhearted. There are always
setbacks on the road to peace. I myself am feeling a little thirsty and, as I
fear it may not be practicable to summon the Downing Street staff at this
particular moment, if I put the kettle on, would anyone care for a cup of tea?
’
No one, it transpires, would.
© Charles Jackson 2011
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