3. MARMADUKE';S MEETING

More about my fictitious politician

The greasy chairman of Marmaduke Lauderdale’s chosen political party, Sir Sopwith Camel, grinned at him revealing a slanted array of yellow teeth with a somewhar hideous gap at the front.

“Well, lad, here we are. The rest is up to you, so do a grand job,”.he growled, “remember, you’re the boss and they’ve got to understand what you’ve got to say.”

Here was the council hall where a meeting had been advertised, one in which the rich and famous would be well advised to steer well clear of and the paupers of the constituency come to learn their fate over the next half decade if their sitting MP, Marmaduke himself, won another term at the forthcoming General Election.

Sir Sopwith stood up and raised one greasy hand, and the buzz of conversation fell to a muted hum that probably wouldn’t go away.

Barry Overall was in the humming audience, and he scowled at Gladys, his wife of fewer years than her appearance suggested seeing as they’d both been young when they’d walked down the aisle of Saint Barabas’s little church together. But times have been hard in recent years, especially for the females of the species.

“We didn’t come all this way to hear that fat toe-rag,” he growled at Gladys, “I reckon, Glad, if he starts spouting his usual greasy rubbish we should pop to the Swede and Turnip for a quick pint.”

“Shush,” was her predictable reply, so he shushed, and on the stage mere yards away Sir Sopwith began his introduction to his despised friend, Marmaduke Lauderdale, MP. It was no secret that tempers often got frayed when those two shared a platform. Sir Sopwith was a traditional party member whilst Marmaduke was an overpriviliged newcomer with a fat wallet.

“Now then, thanks for coming, all of you,” he began in a semi-jovial voice, trying and failing to give the impression that if he was anyone at all he was one of the lads.

“Ged on wiv it,” hissed a voice from somewhere in the smallish crowd, and Sir Sopwith nodded his head at one of the security guards. There seemed to be kind of language concealed within that nod, one that meant find that scum and eject him pronto.

The guard, assuming ignorance of an unknown language, shrugged his shoulders and grinned inanely, so Sir Sopwith continued.

“Let me introduce our local Member of her Majesty’s parliament, the renowned and almost honourable Sir Marmaduke Lauderdale.”

Marmaduke stood up and smiled hugely, his face threatening to crack round the lines placed on it by several years of false smiling and rather sickening heartiness. But he chose to ignore the honour implied in the chairman’s introduction. He was no knight of the realm though he’d be delighted if he was made one.

“Welcome to this ancient and venerable hall,” he began, choosing to forget for the moment that the building had been shoddily erected in the seventies and that there was little venerable about it, and he continued, “when I was invited to address an audience of my constituents I drew up a list of the achievements my government has made…”

“His Government? So he reckons he’s the Prime Minister, does he?” whispered Barry.

“Shush!” hissed Gladys.

“Firstly, the number of policemen on our streets, keeping us safe,” continued Marmaduke (without the sir), “you will all have noticed that wherever you look there is a man or a woman in that comforting uniform, looking into wrong doing of every kind, arresting felons and keeping us all safe…”

“’Scuse me,” interrupted Barry in as loud a voice as Gladys would permit without thumping him in the unmentionables, “I ain’t seen one since last Tuesday, and I’ve looked specially hard so as I can tell you all about any that I spot.”

Marmaduke Lauderdale MP frowned momentarily, then he smiled even more broadly.

“That’s proof of our success,” he almost boomed, “less crime, you see, so there’s no need for so many coppers, I mean officers, troubling you. So we can all mark that down as success, I would think.”

“There’s some sort of contradiction there,” whispered Gladys. Barry ignored her. All the points he intended to make were meant to be like speeding bullets, precise and to the point.

“Let me continue,” grunted Marmaduke, in danger of losing his place on the scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled a few notes. This was a meeting for the man on the street, so he didn’t expect to need many reminders of what he thought they’d find important. He didn’t really think much of the proletariat.

“I see that a few of you are still wearing face masks because of the Covid pandemic,” he said, “and let me assure you that isn’t necessary! I have been assured by the Prime Minister himself that everything’s back to normal, sickness is at a minimum and there are no bugs left in the air, so you can take them off and still be safe”

“Is that true?” whispered Sir Sopwith.

“I dunno, but it sounds good,” was Marmaduke’s almost silent hissed reply.

“My cousin’s in ‘ospital with it,” called out Barry, “and they sent in a priest just in case he’s gonna die.”

“Ignore him,” whispered Sir Sopwith to the MP, and Marmaduke saw the sense in that, so he continued.

“Now for the success that is our proud nation’s exit from the European Union,” he said, his voice rising in order to sound suitably triumphant, “and the way the money they stole off us every week is going towards reducing the taxes we have to pay and the increasing availability of honest labour for the Englishman.”

A man called Bill, sitting two rows behind Barry Overall, stood up at that. “What about my honest toil?” he asked, “I’m out of work because the firm I work for has been relocated to the Netherlands, and I can’t go out there to work at what I love because we left Europe!”

“There are plenty of other jobs,” Marmaduke insisted with a smile that was meant to be sympathetic but gave the impression of being taunting. “I saw in my office that there are vacancies at Rosie Lee’s Retirement Home. You could consider that.”

“Would you?” demanded Bill, “for what they pay?”

“Money isn’t everything,” replied Marmaduke, trying not to sound testy and almost succeeding, “there’s job satisfaction. Think of that. And the benefit to the community of a local man doing good work.”

“You mean, wiping senile codgers’ arses?” growled Bill.

“That’s a good question, mate,” contributed Barry, glancing back to Bill.

“Shush!” hissed Gladys.

“If you look you’ll find gainful employment,” said Marmaduke in the kind of voice that suggested that the subject was over and he intended to move on.

“Bah!” spluttered Bill.

“Talking of retirement homes, there are hundreds of new nurses working for the NHS,” continued the Member of Parliament who sounded as though he might be getting slightly frustrated at the way the meeting was going. After all, he had assumed he was going to be addressing a crowd of supporters eager to soak up more of the lies he had already told them in newsletters and on line, knowing that repetition of some of the topics that may not stand up to detailed scrutiny was the way to political success.

“Where are they, then?” demanded Barry, enjoying himself, “I read that they’ve closed the Collier ward in the general Hospital on account of staff shortage.”

“And many of them are foreigners and they’ve got to learn our lingo first,” added Bill.

“Shush!” hissed Gladys to both of them.

“Now then, order please!” called Sir Sopwith Camel without standing up, “give the man a chance! He lives a busy life, you know. It’s not easy, being in Parliament.”

“Partying? And then having to afford the fine because you were supposed to be in lock down?” demanded Barry, ignoring the nudge in his ribs from his beloved Gladys.

“It wsn’t a party as such,” gabbled Marmaduke, “it was a work event.”

“With champagne?” asked Bill.

“And the sort of buffet us lot can’t afford any more?” demanded Barry, not to be outdone, I mean can’t you explain why the electric and gas have got so expensive?”

Marmaduke spluttered. Here was subject he hadn’t wanted to mention, and here was the problem of the cost of eating and heating.

“It’s world wide,” he said, “and out of our control.”

“And if we’d stayed in Europe?” queried Barry.

“Shut up!” hissed Gladys.

Marmaduke looked at Sir Sopwith helplessly. “I can’t stand this,” he said, “I was expecting a supportive audience who didn’t have a brain cell between them. You know, traditional party members who actually believe what I planned to tell them. Tell ‘em I’m busy. Tell ‘em I’ve got to vote.”

Sir Sopwith stood up. The meeting had been far too brief bearing in mind the cost of publicising it, but even he was happy to think it was coming to an end. He meant to announce that Marmaduke Lauderdale had to leave early due to a call to vote in Parliament, but it came out all wrong.

“Our member’s gone floppy,” he said, intending to say our member’s off to lobby, and failing utterly, as the roar of ironic mirth in the small crowd suggested.

© Peter Rogerson 20.05.22

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