Dan Carver - Ruin Nation

“But I joke, of course,” Ceesal chuckles. The audience laugh nervously. “Probably a bit inappropriate. Didn’t know the cameras were rolling,” he lies. The audience chuckle indulgently.

“We’ll cut that bit out,” says Lindberg.

Damn right, thinks Malmot.

“Oh you won’t, you know!” cries Ceesal. “Because we’re going out live!”

“What?” Lindberg gasps.

“Well,” starts the Prime Minister, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves, “these things can be so formal, can’t they? They can be so forced, you know. And, personally , I’m sick of all the pretence in politics; the packaging; the spin. I don’t want my image airbrushed, my speeches edited, my past, present and future sanitised.”

This meets with a roar of approval from the crowd.

“But? What?!” Lindberg stammers.

“Oh, it’s not so hard to arrange a little thing like a live broadcast,” Ceesal laughs. “Not when you’re the Top Man! ”

Lindberg’s eyes bulge like elephant balls. Malmot cannot experience fear in its conventional sense but his intuition tells him to obtain distance. He sweeps up Slutty Admin Girl and charges toward the nearest exit. Something is said into some device in his gloved hand. The long, black limo oozes up, its right-side window down and Mohammed, the driver, looking concerned.

“You should be watching this,” he says, pointing to one of the vehicle’s television screens.

Slutty Admin Girl stares open-mouthed at the small, flickering image of Ceesal.

“He just hinted at something very rude,” she gasps.

And she’s right to gasp. I have a transcript of the interview. Here. Read for yourself.

LINDBERG: [Shocked]… I trust that was a metaphor?

CEESAL: Metaphor ? [Feigning ignorance] Like those Spanish chappies who fight bulls! [Laughs] You’ve lost me there, I’m afraid. We were talking about…

L: [Interrupts] The human side of politics.

C: Oh yes… that! Now, let’s get one thing straight shall we, Pip, old boy: no matter what noble intentions you enter this game with, you will be hampered at every opportunity by those who have gone before you, become disillusioned, and now work solely for the benefit of their own best interests.

Consequently, a human side – certainly when it comes to things like conscience or compassion – is a weakness, you know. So I repeat: if you want to get ahead, be a cu…

Half the audience hiss. The other half cheer furiously.

CEESAL (CONTINUED): I feel I must address my detractors here, in the audience: this is the real me, take it or leave it, you know. I do tell coarse jokes. I do use offensive language. Frequently , in fact. It doesn’t affect my ability to dictate policy. And, on that score, who wants to hear more interesting things about the ‘C Word’?

L: Hah, Hah! Oh, ho, ho, ho! [Forced] Very good! It’s good to know our new premier has a sense of humour . Really , that’s good. Funny. [Awkward pause] Ahem.

C: Oh, I’m renowned for it. Humour, that is, you know. People are always telling me I’m funny. I know an absolute scorcher about a traffic cone, if you’d like to hear it? Actually, it’s more of a funny story. All true of course. It’s about a society hostess who supplements her income by performing onstage. ‘Capacity’, she calls herself.

L: A-hah, hah! The Prime Minister jokes, of course.

C: Nope, all true! Happened to Thackory Rampton, Minister for Transport!

L: Err, yes. Moving on…

C: Exactly! Well known for his moves is Thackory. Moving violations! That’s why he got Transport Minister!

L: [Mutters to unseen person, stage right] You still want to continue? Christ! Diplomatic immunity? I bloody hope so!

C: [Standing, performing hand gestures] ‘Peep peep!’ he says. ‘Just going to park it in your garage, miss!’ That’s what he says, the filthy barstool! Time for your thousand-mile service? Let’s look under your bonnet, shall we? I’ll just start with this here hooter, young lady!

Boos and catcalls. But an ardent minority clap, cheering louder and louder.

L: Again… if we could talk about you, Minister…

C: Yes, back to me.

L: What do you, Prime Minister, do to relax? [Cringes, instantly realising his mistake.]

C: I go to the gentlemen’s club, of course. You know that, Pip, old boy. You’ve been a member as long as I have. All us Old Etonians… all together… doing what Old Etonians do. Oh, we never really got on that well before, of course. You did seem to regard me as something of an idiot, didn’t you? But, believe me, I was taking it all in. You’re a bit of a livewire on the sly, aren’t you? Aren’t you, Pip, old boy? Remember last month? Francesca, eh?

L: The name doesn’t ring a bell.

C: Of course it does! Franny the Fanny, you called her. Didn’t think it was too subtle, myself. A bit sexist. But, then again, she’s your pick up – you can call her what you want.

L: I don’t recall.

C: Oh yes you do! You call her frequently. No wonder you’re divorced! Eh? Eh, old boy?! Missus got sick of you bringing the pox home, eh?

L: Anyway, moving on… what do you…

C: And we sing the old school songs, don’t we? Don’t we, man? Don’t we, old boy?

L: No.

C: Yes we do!

L: I don’t recall.

C: Of course you recall. And I seem to remember you’ve got a rather pleasing baritone, unless I’m very much mistaken. So how about a few verses of something saucy, eh?

L: No.

C: Oh, come now! No need to be embarrassed. This is your swansong, after all. You may as well enjoy it.

L: Swansong? Eh? But I’m not going anywhere.

C: Oh dear! Have I let something slip?… Oh well, cat’s rather out of the bag now, isn’t it? May as well come clean, you know. Confession’s good for the soul, and all that.

You see, I have it on very good authority that this is your last broadcast. [Adopts forced smile.]

L: Really? I mean, really ?

C: [Sympathetic] Well, you’re not getting any younger, are you? And think about it: how many other political interviews have they given you? One might suspect an attempt to raise the show’s profile – in readiness for your replacement. I mean, from soap stars to the Prime Minister, it’s a bit of a departure, isn’t it? In fact, ‘departure’ is the operative word here, I’d say. A hah!… Sorry. I just found that last remark quite amusing.

L: [Ashen-faced] But… but they’d tell me?

C: Why? And give you extra time to consult your lawyers? Oh come now, Pip-Pop. Let’s face it, you’re getting a bit long in the tooth for telly, aren’t you? This is a young man’s game, you know. A young man wearing a sharp suit and talking with a fashionable regional accent.

L: [Flustered] But… I… Damn! But, I mean… Ah, Christ!… I can’t believe it!

C: So you may as well go out on a song, I say. Something appropriate .

L: Yes, you’re… You’re right! Something appropriate !

It’s not hard to push Lindberg over the edge. You’ve a man with a voluminous, but ultimately, fragile ego working in a cutthroat industry full of young, smart, backstabbing jackals. Throw in Ceesal’s goading, drug-induced paranoia and you’ve all the constituent components of a highly amusing mental breakdown.

Well, Mental is as Mental does, and Malmot watches stupefied as Lindberg treats the viewing public to the curious spectacle of a fat man with a tie wrapped around his head, marching on the spot to his own internal rhythm and singing: