Postscript: We Got Those Algorithms!

Had to smile when this little ad popped up over one of CU's recent pieces where we have been wondering about the fate of commercial property.

Perhaps the algo detected those of the BTL comments that were upbeat!  Because let's face it, some of them weren't ...

ND

I hear you're a racist now, Father Jez...

 

Father Jez Cilly and his loyal, but simple, young priest, Father Kevin Maguire, were contemplating the utter mess that covered the sitting room of their Old Labour Party parochial house headquarters, on Maggie Island. There were bits and pieces of litter and rubbish everywhere.

  Father Jez's rickety old 1970's desk, that Old Father MaoDonnell had cheerfully signed Gulag expulsion orders on, back in his GLC days when he was purging 'counter-revolutionaries' with Father Livingstone, was almost buried under paperwork.

It was swamped with flyers for Owen Jones' endless pop-up protests. Invitations to visit tyrannical, socialist despots around the globe.  Long passed Klaus Fuchs Islington Allotment Tenants Association schedules.

Faded posters depicting soviet iconography of strong and determined agricultural and industrial peasants, uniting in service to the Motherland and World Communism, had peeled from the Beer and Sandwiches stained, grubby walls. And fallen unto the unfashionable and dated 1970's 'Austin Maxi beige' carpet.

  Mrs Chakrabarti, the housekeeper, usually tried to straighten and tidy the considerable mess the socialist priests were always making of things. But she had recently injured her back whilst trying to apply several coats of whitewash to the entire Labour Party.

 The clutter wasn't going to clean itself, thought Father Jez...Or maybe it was?..Old Father MaoDonnell was always saying things would pay for themselves. Maybe they would tidy themselves too?
But then again he had waited ten weeks already and there was still no sign of the 

self-cleaning-miracale-of-public-ownership happening with the wastepaper bin.

No. They were just going to have to clean up themselves.

"Come on now, Father Maguire. Help me tidy this room. Mrs Chakribarti is too poorly to do it."

"Ok so, Father Jez. But..like..how do we do that? Do we renationalise the Hoover or something?"

"I don't think that will work."

"I know. Give Mrs Chakribarti a payrise then..£10 an hour !? She does like a bribe, doesn't she, Jez?"

"No..Father..that..won't.."

"£20 then..That's a living wage in anybodies book. Why, Jez..I'd be happy to get £20 an hour just for making a a high pitched whiney noise, eh?"

"You already do. No. A payrise won't help us here."

A spluttering, and groaning came from the foul smelling chair at the back of the room. Father MaoDonnell opened his cold, bleary eyes and shouted "Shoot the Cleaner!"

and then slumped back into his stupour.

"Ahh..shooting people is his answer to everything. That's the old, old, old socialist way, Father MaoDonnell. We don't do that sort of thing in the New, Old, Old-Labour Party. We just deselect them. But that won't work either. .."

"Its a tricky one," said Kevin thoughtfully. "What would Lenin do?"

"He'd probably just shut the door and tell everyone it was fabulously clean inside.

But no. We are going to do this. I mean it can't be that hard. Not if a woman can do it, eh?"

"Too right, Jez," chuckled Kevin Maguire. Who had self-identified as Male-Female-TransQ and been on labour candidates 'All Female-but Some-Males-if they are union faithfuls looking for a cushy number '  shortlists so many times, Father Jez no longer really knew what sex he/she really was.

"Right, let's start," said Father Jez as he stood up from his armchair. He was still wearing his stripey pajamas and wanted to get this done before he had to change for the evening 'appeal to the Mass.'

He surveyed the room. Where to start?

 He spied a piece of a christmas costume that had been left on the floor since December.
A Father Christmas beard. Jez had been persuaded to go to a children's hospital at Christmas. He'd dressed as Santa. Only with an empty present sack. To show that even sickly kids suffered Tory Austerity. The costume had hung in the corner. Jez had briefly considered sewing a hammer and sickle to the outfit and insisting Tom Watson wear it as part of his ongoing humiliation.
But in the end the oversize clothing had been too tight for Tom. So it languished on a coat stand. And the beard had fallen to the floor.

Father Jez picked it up. Both the priests smiled. This wasn't going to be so bad. in fact. It was going to be easy. Another triumph in the march of socialism.

Jez looked at the long white beard in his hand. He smiled as he had an idea.

"Hey, Kevin. Look at this." He attached the beard. "Guess which revolutionary leader I am." He puffed out his chest and stroked his long white beard with a reflective, deep in thought expression on his face. "Come on..guess.."

Father Maguire looked puzzled. Then finally asked, "Is it Demis Roussos?"

"No! I said revolutionary leader. Father of the struggle." And he stroked his beard more.

"Are you Sting? No? .. Pudsey..are you Pudsey Bear?"

" Kevin Maguire, what's the matter with you?" Asked an exasperated Jez. His foolish and dim-witted associate was ruining this. "Why..How..and ..I mean..for heaven's sake..Why would I be Pudsey?"

"Ohh, yes right. Of course. Not Pudsey. You wouldn't impersonate him. He's BBc. And not with them photoshopping your whole hat and everything...Soo..Socialist revolutionary icon..Ohh..ohh..Salvador Allende!"

"No..he didn't even have a beard. I'm Karl Marx..Look..Karl Marx! "

"Ah right, so. ..Which one is he again?"

"You really must try and learn these things. Its very important to know," Jez told him mildly. He knew from experience that simple Kevin Maguire wouldn't remember anything.

"Really?"

"Nah. not really. Just Marx and Lenin. You can blag the rest by mashing any German and Russian names. And randomly 'ism' a word. 
'The theory of Actualism-Emperio-Suspicionism by Hans Kuriyakin.'
 See..its easy. I once gave a lecture on 'Upsydownism in the socio-state-mannerism.' No one noticed it was all bollox. Anyway......Now we have the hang of this cleaning business..Let's crack on." said Father Jez enthusiastically.

And as he bent down to retrieve a discarded bathroom hand towel from the floor, promptly smacked himself in the face with the edge of the bookshelf. 

He clutched his swelling nose, bent double in pain. A copy of The Communist Manifesto wobbled on the very top shelf. It was a particularly heavy version of the voluminous tome. It had lots of pictures in it too. Karl at the beach at Brighton. 1878. Karl and Engels laughing with ice creams on the pier and taking a rowing boat out.

 The swaying book finally lost the battle with gravity and plunged onto Father Jez's head. Adding considerably to his pain.

Father Maguire scooped up the towel and placed it across Father Jez's shoulders. As some blood flowed from a cut on Jez's head he thought Jez could use the towel to mop at it. 
 Kevin then spied an old black, knitted Balaclava that had been a gift from Gerry Adams. It had a smiley face logo on the back. With the inscription 'Provo's do it with Semtex.' Father Kevin  picked it up and placed it over the swelling bump on Father Jez's head. He helped him to the chair at the desk. At that moment, as Jez moaned in discomfort, there was a knock at the door.

"Who can that be," asked Father Jez, weakly.

"Oh that will be the Jews for Labour contingent, " said the younger priest.

"What? Jews for Labour? I didn't know there were any Jews in the Labour party?"

"Oh yes. Hampstead Heath has long been popular with Jewish Labour supporters. Do you not remember Father Ed Miliband ? He met a fellow up there. Said he was going to buy a cottage or rent a badger off him..Gareth his name was..Miliband told the media. For some reason.."

"Kevin, I can't see them now. I've been whacked on the bonce. My nose is swelling up enourmously. It hurts an awful lot even to breath. I just want to sit quietly and read some Das Kapital to get over the shock. 
 Can you ask them to maybe come back later? Make up some excuse, now. Don't say I've been injured in a tidying up accident. Or I'll look a complete ejiit. And see if you can find some Dettol for this cut. I'm definitely going to need antiseptic. Look in the medicine cabinet. And see if there's some asprin for my head. And a glass of water, please. Water. Not juice. That orange juice in the fridge has gone off.  "

"Right-ho Jez. Count on me." Father Kevin Maguire left the older priest at his desk by the window. Whimpering softly to himself.

*****

Father Maguire knew just what to say. That Jez was unwell. And that he would reschedule the appointment. But as he walked the short distance to the front door, he confused himself with the ringing words of Father Jez. 
Appointment and then the Ointment.

Ointment  was a word Father Maguire had always found funny. When he was a little boy his mother had always called it 'Oinkment.' The memory of it made him smile. He was still smiling as he opened the door to the group from Jews For Labour. 

"Hello," said the leader of the Labour Jewish committe. An elder man who had long been in the Labour party. And was used to its peaks and troughs and radical changes. "We are here to see Father Jez about a little problem."
He smiled kindly at Father Maguire.

Kevin smiled back. Though more dumbly, than kindly He wasn't expecting to see so many from Labour's Jewish community at his door. And he was still thinking about 'Oinkment,'.

There was a silence.

A younger, more angry looking member pointed at Kevin. "We're here to see Jez. About him facebooking Zionist conspiracy groups. Is he here? We need to speak with him urgently!"

"Allegedly face time-link-blog.tweet.snapchoppy. Or whatever it is called." said the elder man. "I'm sure its all just a misunderstanding and Father Jez can explain what happened.

His younger colleague gave a loud snort of derision. He wasn't so sure it was a "misunderstanding." Thirty five years of Father Jez's parliamentary actions in favour of any enemy of Israel made him very cynical. 

The silence continued. A smiling, though simple looking Father Kevin, opening, yet blocking the doorway. 

The group looked puzzled for one to another. The young man snorted his annoyance again.

It was that snort that did it. The snort on top of the 'Oinkment' and the larger than expected crowd with banners and funny hats. It triggered Father Maguire's easily distracted brain to engage his mouth with whatever he was thinking.

"Oink!" he exclaimed.

"Beg your pardon," the group elder asked. Imagining he had misheard.

"Oink!. oink..oink oink oink." Said Kevin. And then added a further 'Oink."

The group were startled. "He's..he's ..is he being a pig ?" Asked one man.
"How offensive" said a young woman, crossly.

Kevin realised what he'd done. He hurriedly tried to correct himself..

"No.erm..sorry about that..I was just thinking about what Jez had just said to me, you see..And I got confused with you and what he wanted me to tell you."

The group looked baffled.
Eventually the leader asked gently, "What did Father Jez ask you tell us?"

But the long silence and the hostile staring had done for the young priest. He really wanted a good look at Father Jez's map of World Communism. The one with 'Reality' and 'Dreams' clearly identified upon it. But all he had at this moment were his own wits. It wasn't much.

"Ahh you see now. Er..Jez wanted me..to..erm..tell you he was in need of erm..what did he say now? Oh yes..I remember now..He said .. "We have to get rid them all. Make them go away."

He smiled broadly as he remembered what he had just been told.

"What" gasped the group." He told you to tell us that? Was there any explanation?"

Father Kevin thought hard. There had been something else.. What was it? Something about metal. Or De-tox? No..Dettol ! He said he needed some ..what was that tricky word he used..A bit like the ointment one, it was..his brow creased in painful thought. And then he remembered it.
And beamed like a child.

"He said, 'Get rid of them. And remove them. And he asked me instead, to get him..
 something. ..Anti-Semitic! ...
And then he said something about "Don't bring me any more Juice. I've gone right off them, or something like that."

The committee stared in silence at the junior priest. No one said a word. Which Father Maguire took as a good sign that they had understood.

"Bye then, " he said.

And he closed the door on the stunned Jews for Labour committee.

He set off for the medicine cabinet for the antiseptic before he realised he'd said 'remove' instead of 'reschedule.'
 Sure, he thought, they probably understood just the same.

The association outside stared at the now closed door. Finally the younger one crossly said, "Come on. let's go. I told you this was a waste of time. He's a racist."

The group turned and began walking back to the gate. The leader couldn't believe it. He was sure there was some mistake. Jews had been prominent in the labour party for decades. He was about to suggest they try knocking at the door again. To see if Father Jez would come to speak in person and explain what had happened. But before he could speak, the party heard a low wail coming from the window they were passing. They peered through.

Inside Father Jez sat at his desk. His bashed nose swollen to a grotesque size. His Santa Claus, slash, Karl Marx beard, still attached, unnoticed by Jez, to his face. 
The bathroom hand-towel still across his shoulders.
His head throbbed in pain so great that he couldn't bring himself to read from his favourite words. So he just moaned to himself a little . And swayed in time to the pounding.

Father Jez calming his pain

"He's dressed up as a Rabbi?" Said one in surprise.
"Is he pretending he's at the Wailing Wall ?" asked another.
"He's wearing a fake nose. It looks like putty? He's caricaturing us!" Said another.
"He's taking the piss. That's what he's doing. The Antisemitic old racist!"
And he led the group away. Condemning the unknowing Labour party leader all the way.

All Jez knew was when father Kevin brought him some unasked for antihistamine and said that the Jews had gone.
Would they be back today, a weary Jez asked Kevin.
"Oh no. Certainly not today," he told Jez.
And added rather oddly, "And probably not tomorrow or the day after."

*****


[to be continued]

Nash: Beautiful Mind, Baleful Consequences

It is really pleasing that Nash, the tortured genius, produced such staggering work in pure areas like geometry and PDEs, where he made astonishing advances that cannot be gainsaid.

Because his other, probably even more famous work - the Nash Equilibrium - was an 'advance' of a very dubious kind.

No problem with the maths (not that I am equipped to judge): as with so much in the pseudo-science of 'economics' it's the applications.  In the Real World - the one that matters - the simplifying assumptions behind so many theories just do not hold to the necessary degree for the edifices that are constructed on those foundations to be considered safe.  

No engineer would be permited to build a bridge on similarly flaky physical principles.  But pontificating economists and econometricians, wildly layering unjustified wobbly assumptions one upon another as though they were proper foundation-stones, infect the thought-processes of politicians and regulators.  Yes, and sometimes even businessmen, who can frequently be conned into paying tens of thouands for 'forecasts' that are quite literally not worth the paper they are printed on (as a glance at the disclaimers in 6-point at the bottom of the document make clear).

The Nash Equilibrium is mis-applied all over the place: within the models used to generate price forecasts - well, more fools the folk who buy them - but more seriously by regulators who reckon they can thereby 'understand' the markets they intervene in and supervise.   The flamboyant Taleb* rants against misuse of the Gaussian, but I'd say misuse of Nash is worse - not least, because it's generally less obvious; embedded deep, unacknowledged, its limitations less well know.  And idiot businessmen make speculative decisions that impact their shareholders; but idiot regulators make decisions that affect us all.

Nash's Nobel prize is therefore a rather depressing commentary on the ways of the world.  So much the better that he won the great maths prizes as well.

ND
________________
* Don't read Black Swan, he'd gone OTT by then - read Fooled By Randomness

The Secret Diary of Owen Jones, Aged 13¾

The Secret Diary of Owen Jones Aged 13¾

14th March 2014

Terrible news! The greatest parliamentarian of the age is dead! Wedgie Benn is gone! WoW!  His statesman like bearing and ability to get to the heart of the issue by demanding greater union representation made him a hero to everyone who ever lived a proper life. I saw him on the TV once. I think it was the Ali G show. His socialist principles really shone through. I want to emulate him in every way! Actually I want to be better than that coz he never achieved anything and did rather sell out to the Lipton's brigade..So I will be a better Benn. More radical. More uncompromising. More left wing.

And I read in the Daily Mirror that he kept a daily diary, just like ME! 
So really I am already his spiritual heir, if not his actual heir. Which is just as well as I don't want all those estates and mansions the great proletariat hero owned. He was going to give them to the people, I'm certain of that. He just didn't have time, dying so young at just 88.
I shall wear red socks for 48 hours. As a mark of respect and protest.

But there is something rather sinister about two great heroes of the left passing so recently. Bob Crow and now Tony Benn. And that's soon after Hugo Chavez who was the greatest leader who ever lived. Greater than Lenin or Mao or even Neil Kinnock. 

I bet these deaths are linked. The evil forces of the Thatcherite, NeoCon-CIA-Mossad-MI5-FBI-DVLA- E.ON - AOL special forces probably murdered them all to prevent the coming uprising of the downtrodden peoples of the world. 

 I skyped my secret best-g-friend, @PennyRed.
She has moved to America with her parents for her dad's financial work. I asked her if she must hate being in the very belly of the capitalist parasite, New York.
She said "uhh..Umm..well..I guess..Its so .. Unreactionary and immune to the plight of the working class people..But they do have good bagels."

That's weird. I heard that New Yorker's loved eating big apples. Maybe that's New Mexico. I'll have to look it up in my atlas of amazing socialist facts by Dr Eion Clarke. I got that for Christmas, which I don't celebrate as its a bourgeois, religious-oppression invention to confuse the proletariat and promote corrupting capitalism. 

But mum says its very rude to turn down a gift.

 Anyway the book is brilliant! Loads and loads of facts about everything. 
Did you know more people have died from the bedroom tax than died from the black death?

 @PennyRed was sure I was right and that there is a plot to eliminate all the left leaning leaders of the world. She even mentioned Shirley Temple's death was 'big news on the cable' whatever that means. I think she confused Shirley Williams, with Temple, but i didn't want to correct her. She can get very stroppy if you do that. Calls it 'male domination of misrembering' and that is a HATE CRIME! 
She is so hardcore! She won't be tempted by all that glitz and fake glamour. She won't sell out. 

She is one of the three founder and only, bloodbrothers, slash, sisters of the Stockport urban guerrillas popular front of
Gramsci, Internationale, Trotsky Socialists. 

PennyRed and me and the Dalai Lama. Although he never replied to my text to join our freedom fighters, I'm pretty sure that was just because the authorities took his phone charger, so he is in.

 As the upcoming leader of the Gramsci, Internationale, Trotsky Socialists, or GITS, I must take care that I am not on the hitlist of the Bildeberger assassins. 

I shall push my rubber plant across to the door and keep my Pol Pot nightlight on at all times.
And the squeaky floorboard at the top of the stairs will give me plenty of time to escape through the window should I hear the agents of  injustice creeping past the airing cupboard.

Sleepy now. I shall dream of myself, bravely alone and on the run from the forces of imperialism. Clad only in my Michael Foot donkey jacket, red protest socks and Manchester United Pj's.

 {I didn't choose them! But as I said earlier, Its very rude to refuse a Christmas gift. .. Especially one from your mum.} 


With apologies to the late Sue Townsend

Julian Assanage watches the news on Ecuador TV

República presente .. CHANNEL 9...Neus

"Bono Estente! Con ith Poutremos Poutra-Poutremos..."

"..con  ith Kolothos Apollonia, ésta 9 Neus...."

 "Sminki pinki! El príncipe emira, tres in lingua los Regio Angletarrio, 'Harry the Ginger one' este flagrante nudio dande un sminki pinki, bikini bonko. Unde yungo ladios flash el goolios aristocrático. Inde embarrasio trio chiquita bunga bunga. Una Reinas Angletarrio, Elisthabeth-Heth heth hethetheth hetheth het heth, mamá-señora, ditos "He's just like his grandad!"....ha ha ha ...Poutremos ?"

"Si..ha ha ha ha remindera meo à sporto foota "Chris Waddle." Apolonia bunzo di marigardia spectate addresiari United Nations Ban Ki-moonos. "Go compare! Go Compare! Atalio Meerkat, Admiral dota com...Kolothos..."

"Gracia Poutremous... Neus financhilos. 

 Unióna Europea stocks este shares capitalistic imperio, collapsi sande pánico. El Europeso nune value. El locale MEP Guillarmo Quangero esta "Greecyio moosta departe El Europeso immediatale likà Asil Nailbar, Poly Pocket  provoko. Fugitive escapare imprisone."

 Neus Politica..El glorioso Presidente imperpertuea, Rafael Correa 
{newsmen stand and salute the Ecuadorian flag}
.. enuncia à la militairia di Ecuador, preparatol aggressor Schwarzenegger, El loco Obama, Presidente à la Unitaris Constar di Amerigo... Presidente Correa instructo Obama di "leave it..it ain't worf it."

Presidente Correa alsa informe el Presidente Davido Cameroon à "but out." or, "Falia helé, Falia hela, Falia helé..imperio Death Star."

Et aujordhuio, à message di Julian Assange, politico asylum-bin, broadcasta locatione Ecuadorian Ambassede, Londres (capital de Angletarrio),. 

Bondidas. Con esta los Broadcasta..

{Assange's message to the world briefly appears at the top left of the news screen before interference causes lines and fuzzing of the image. Then the picture blinks out into a white dot on a black screen.}

"Ahh..terriballe apologios..Problematico technica.. Returnio di el tediouso, mentale, self publicist momentario. Er...er...esta Paula Fisch meteorologicas ..Paula?..Este Scorchio ?...Si? "

"Si...Exceptica  Angletarrio qui'esta pissey et windale banquos festivales totalio."

"Ha ha. Pauvrez Angeltario. Una republica di summero totale absorbe acuático hydráulogico . Esta neus finita."

"Boutros Boutros Ghali!"

Spad's Army. Pt 4 - Keep Calm and Carry on Spending

Spad's Army. Pt 4 - Keep Calm and Carry on Spending

Captain Camering of the Second Homes Guard is in the Westminster village hall in his office with his deputy, sergeant Cleggson. The Warden Blinky' Balls had just left after winding up Camering again.

As Camering and Cleggson were sitting in the office Camering was still thinking about what had happened. “The cheek of that man.”

“Oh I know sir. Dreadful chap. And so loud and ..well...so very blinky.”

“Imagine! Me only interested in looking after number one."

“hmm..imagine” said Cleggson faintly.

“I do look out for everyone! I’m not one to take advantage of my position. And what’s all this fairness I keep hearing about? It’s all fair isn’t it. If I protect the nation’s interests, then that makes everyone better off, surely you can see that?”

“But people want fairness now.”

“Well they’ve got rationing. That’s fair. They've all had cuts to salaries and pensions. That's very fair. No one gets an advantage with that.”

The door opened and Pte Johnson, the spiv Londoner and mayor, put his head around. “Sorry captain..those stockings you wanted for Mrs  Camering, for your anniversary..Only in blue with a red garter, alright? Two bob to you, Ok?” And he closed the door. 

“You see sir that’s just it. The rich are not affected like the poor. Its not a fair society. you can buy whatever you want.”

There was another knock at the door. Vicar Rowan Williams came into the small office. 

“Captain Camering. I need to have the space by the side of the cemetery. Its on church land. I need the space for some fifty tents for about a hundred people. I told you about it last week. These are people escaped from the occupied counties, like Merseyside and Inverness. Its an occupy protest.  The church will supply water and of course spiritual guidance. I shall write a unifying sermon..How to serve more God and less Mammon”

Camering looked amazed. “Tents! What are you talking about? Vicar..that rifle range is integral to the efficient training of this platoon. I cannot permit it to be filled with the tents of trade unionists, reality refugees and loony left wing intellectuals. It would be impossible. I’m sorry.”

“Very well. I suppose I could let them use the Verger’s garden...But you must let them make their protest about how the banks led us into this dreadful war. Just a few banners..?”

“Ohhh..we’ll talk later vicar. I’m very busy..if you don’t mind..” and he ushered the bearded cleric from the room.

 

“Really Cleggson..All this banker bashing. It’s getting quite absurd. Its not the banks fault we are in a crisis and have to have deep, deep unthinkable austerity and tight controls. And I’m the bank manager. Its almost like they are attacking me personally.”

“Fancy.”

"We'll have to do something Cleggson. It'll be all over for me at the next election if we don't."

"Really? How unfortunate."

" And for you much, much sooner..Now come on man! Pull your socks up! you're the platoon sergeant. Buck up! Go and get the men ready for parade."

As the sergeant left Dave thought about this fairness thing. He pondered what his Liberal colleague had been saying. A fair society. But how. Charity? Had that for centuries. Benefits? Everyone was entitled to a ration from the state now as it was. Some more than others. What did they all mean. A better society? A more balanced society, where everyone had a chance? Maybe a bigger society? Where everyone had a chance to be a .. a..big shot? 

Was that it? 

 He went out to join the others.

******

Camering spoke to the men.

“Right..I believe that the only way to defeat the immense forces ranged against us is if we can somehow reduce our costs so that our spending is so low we can maintain our triple A rating. Even without a single percentage point of growth. We need to get the public to become completely self sufficient. Get ordinary people to take on the roles that were previously only provided by the state.”

“Ahh knew it..its priiivaarrrrtissssaaaaationn” called private Cable in his high quavering voice."Ahh knew it all along"

“No its not,” said Camering crossly. “Privatisation would mean people taking on the public sector jobs to make a profit. I want them to do it for nothing.” 

“How would we get people to take on work for no pay, “ Asked Lance corporal Hague.”They are quiet used to getting paid for work, you know sir.”

 I can help you there sir. Said Private Johnson. I’ve got a load of those little windmills from the novelty rock emporium. The ones the nippers stick in sandcastles. Well..if we wire them all up to a generator, as long as the winds blowing, we’ll have electricity. Five bob for ten, alright?

Do be quiet Johnson.

Allright. Tell you what. I’ve also got all the mirrors out of the house of fun on the pier. We’ll put the mirrors in a field and they’ll reflect sunlight into the bedrooms  of nearby houses. Call it a fiver and I’ll get my mate ‘speedy’ Huhne to install the mirrors. Can’t say fairer than that now can I? Said Johnson, puffing on the stub of his cigarette.

I don’t think this is a good idea at all,said Camering.

Thats a shame. You father-in-law says he wants to stick a load of ‘em in his field. For a decent rental of course.

Ahh...well...That’s different. Quite different. You’re a bit of a rough diamond Johnson, but I’ll trust you judgement on this issue.

"Wake up Clarke someone", said Camering, as he spied the platoon's oldest member sleeping by the stage. "And Cleggson, take his name. He's wearing Hush Puppies on parade again."

“Oh I’m terribly sorry Captain Camering. I must have drifted off again. I had a very bad night, I’m afraid. I think my sister Dolly’s upside down cake disagreed with me. Or perhaps it was the four glasses of fine port. "

“Yes...I see..well have you any had any ideas on the Big Society? For your Justice brief?”

“As a matter of fact sir, I have. I thought of all the money we’ve been spending keeping Abu Qatada in prison. I never really cared for that fellow at all, sir. Anyway I was sitting in a deckchair at the village cricket match the other day and I had an idea. When a batsman was given out, he was jolly angry. Some sort of no ball decision. But..you see sir..once he’d been to the pavilion and had a nice cup of tea and some jam scones, he was quite all right again. Smiling and chatting and reading the papers...”

“Is there a point to this story, Kenneth?”

“Well..I was just thinking that if we sent all our angry young prisoners for a nice cup of tea and some ginger biscuits in an open pavilion, how much happier and less troublesome they’d be. And it would save a fortune in prison costs and officers. Just a bit of catering required."

“Clarke, “ said captain Camering with mounting exasperation, “That is the most stupid idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh dear, that’s a pity. I’ve been doing it for almost two years already. I wonder if I might be excused Captain Camering. I've got  some theatre tickets. I'm sure you can manage without me.”

"No you may not! In case you hadn't noticed we're in a life and death struggle with Frau Merkel's U-turn boats. We need everyone fully committed if we are to win  a second term in government.  Its not easy wining a majority in an election you know?

"Well blimey, I managed it,” called out Private Johnson, his blonde hair flopping in a very unmilitary manner.

“Ahh..yes..but you were fighting against a very unpopular opposition. Comrade Ken and his discredited policies.

“An’ you was fighting against old tax ‘n spend Oswald Brownshirt. Cor dear. A contest against the most useless leader since Kinnochio. And you muffed it."

“That’s quite enough Johnson. Quiet in the ranks. Private Lansley? Any ideas?” Asked Camering agitated at the outburst.

“Well I thought a top down reform of the NHS would reduce our spending and unite the health service behind us.”

There was silence as Camering looked at him. Dave pursed his lips . He lent over to whisper in Cleggson’s ear.”Take that man’s name sergeant, He’s an idiot.”

"Any ideas Osborne?" He asked of the young chancellor. "And take your thumb out of your mouth!"

“Well..you know how its really annoying being stuck behind a caravan on holiday? I’d thought I’d solve that.”

“AAhh..Now ..Finally! Here’s something. A good idea. You mean something like a nationwide road building scheme using minimum priced, currently unemployed contract labour instead of expensive machinery. With the burdensome bureaucracy ripped up and a generous system of bonuses for timely completion of much needed works?”

The private bit his lower lip. “ No. ..I meant I’d put a 70% tax on caravans.”

"Camering puffed again. “You stupid boy! Well that just leaves you Hague. Any ideas?"

“Well sir..Back in the day, when Lady Kitchen led us against the Fuzzy Argies the whole nation rose up as one and stood together, in support of our brave boys.”

“Yes, Hague...but I’ve had one war already. And we’re still in Afghanistan. And the cuts have been so deep we haven’t an aircraft carrier to take on the Argentinean or any artillery shells to tackle the Syrians.”

“No sir..I wasn’t thinking about the war bit sir. I was thinking about the flags. Thousands of people lining the streets and waving union flags and cheering. That got the morale up, sir. And the poll ratings. ...We could arrange something like that.”

“Aye..the silly old fool is right sir. Why not have a national day of celebration? Get the people to celebrate the influence of tha’ Lib Dems on the rich, arrogant posh boys. Tha’s nay my words, ye understand. Tha’s Mrs. Dorries.. Ah’ just repeatin’ wa’ I heard. With great relish”

“No one will turn out for the Liberals, Cable. Even the greens have more support."

 " An’ everyone hates greens.” Claimed Private Johnson.

“But he is right you know. A national day of celebration. Street parties, bunting! Union Jack non vat rated cakes and face painting. A day to forget the bleak future and budget cuts. .By Jove, Cleggson! This is a great idea. A Jubilee! Give everyone a day off to celebrate a unifying cause and we’ll pick up the feel good factor.”

“Even though we in government have nothing to do with it?" Said Cleggson. " Its the people organising the events for themselves in their own streets, with their own food. Making their own entertainment and using their own money, and clubs and societies and volunteers time. Making use of their very own skills, tupperware and garden furniture?”

“Precisely Cleggson." chuckled the Captain. 

"What could be more big society than that?”

End.