HIGH OFFICE IN FAIRYLAND

The problems experienced by important men in a fictitious government when it comes to pensions and the elderly.

A warning by the dreamer of dreams. What follows is purely the contents of the dreamer’s favourite dream and consequently can’t possibly bear any relationship in any way to any persons, living or dead or as yet unborn. So there.

The Prime Minister sat in his office and gazed lovingly at his favourite photograph of himself. “What a fine figure of a man,” he thought, “wouldn’t it be even finer if I had more shares in my portfolio and more pounds in the bank?

“But the country’s as good as bankrupt and some bright spark would notice if I managed to divert even more of its treasure into my own pocket. There are nosy parkers everywhere!

“I’ve an idea!

“The trouble with people and our population is the moment they retire from productive graft, the very moment they take a peek at their pension rights, they start moaning. I mean, what do they need so much money for anyway? They’ve packed up gainful employment, can lie in their fluffy beds until way past nine in the morning if they like, can spend half their time getting drunk and the other half sleeping it off and I believe methylated spirits is in their price range, and sleeping don’t cost a penny…

“Then they eat, the b******s, real food! They actually feed their wrinkled old bodies with good food and demand even better nosh. Then, and this is the biggest offence, they complain if their poor little overgrown tummies start grumbling about being hungry.

“I think I’ll have a word with the home secretary, see if we can come up with a scheme that will enrich the country and ourselves. I’ve half a plan fermenting in my mind as it is…

“I could make receiving so much as a penny of pension subject to a form being filled in properly, with no mistakes and half a dozen of the sort of passwords that not even I understand or can remember. Yes, that might do, but then some democratic idiot will clamber onto a platform and denounce it as being undemocratic. But we all have passwords, don’t we? So what could possibly be wrong with expecting old farts with the time to commit just about everything to memory having to recall a few extra passwords?

“That would be the first stage.. So to the home office and see what the twallop I appointed to the home office has to add. Let me see… it was a girl, wasn’t it? That was a mad moment, me promoting a girl to high office. I should never have done that. Ah, there she is!

“Hey, You there, girlie, I’ve been thinking about money and how we can do something about the mess we’re all in.”

The Home Secretary sniffed. “Then you want the money man,” she said, scowling, “You know, the arse-wipe you put in charge of stuff like money next door!”

The prime minister sniffed and nodded.

“I just wanted to run a few thoughts past you,” he said, “like wretched old farts. They’re emptying the treasury with all the pensions they expect us to give them and I noticed that his own expenses were a trifle unaffordable this month…”

She nodded. “I was praying for a warm winter,” she said, “but it looks as if it might be a cold one, and the bodies of old timers dying of the cold because the fuel brigade want increased profits might pile a bit too high, and then all the lefties will starts moaning about profits and before you can say Jack Daniels there’ll be armed battles on the streets and in the board rooms…”

“Jack Robinson, Home Secretary, not Jack Daniels…”

“Sorry, Prime Minister. A slip of the tongue. My favourite. What about a guillotine?”

“A guillotine? I hadn’t thought of that. I’d not got beyond toxic pain killers and arsenic flavoured blood pressure medication…”

“And piling the bodies so high there’ll not be a crematorium big enough to dispose of them? Then what would the lefty press say? Best be careful, Prime Minister, or they’ll be demanding a general election while the old timers are still alive, preaching their nonsense about the right to live.”

“That’s a good point.” The Prime Minister thoughtfully scratched his balls. “And we should remember that there might be the odd old man or woman who actually does a job and thus pays taxes,” he added thoughtfully, “I mean, where would number ten be without the bloke who clears the dead leaves up in the garden here every December? Or feeds the cat?”

“Do we pay him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we do and maybe we don’t! You mentioned the guillotine?”

“I’ve got contacts across the channel and might get hold of a few and turn it into a television spectacular game show, along the lines of ‘Pointless’. The team with the highest score gets guillotined? People love that sort of thing, and it it were to happen say next week then it’d mean the average householder won’t have so many old folks to buy Christmas presents for, wouldn’t it?”

He grinned at her. “And the pile of bodies would all be part of a fun programme on the telly? Brilliant! So I’ll see the money chap. Or bird. I forget who I put in number eleven. So we’ve got a real plan! Passwords they can’t remember in order to get money they can’t have if they forget them, poisonous medicines for popular complaints associated with old age and a game show with a guillotine! That way they won’t notice the cold this winter!”

Now remember, the characters in this little short story are extracted from the dreamer’s dream and have absolutely nothing to do with any real person, living or dead or called Hitler.

© Peter Rogerson, 05.12.24

xxx