The Word Cloud

Hi Everybody,

I just joined Humour and would appreciate any feedback on the posting below. I want to see if I can cannibalise some chapters from work written last year (didn't find an agent or publisher for it) in order to write some short scripts/stories. Thanks....Rob

Chapter 17 -The Quango-roo-

“In they went two by two

From the elephant to the humble shrew

Noah counted and ticked each box

From the wombat to the wily fox

The seed of the world, a fresh start

To plough the field and pull the cart

Warmly tucked in safe refuge

Piled inside to await Deluge

Then in crashed a strange new beast

An eager arrival smugly pleased

I am the Quango-roo!

And you must take me too

I require almost no space

Just let me have free run of the place

I cost nothing to feed

As long as you give me whatever I need

I’ll make hardly a sound

I can see that I have you spellbound

You’ll need me in that brave new world

When politics are majestically unfurled

Don’t give me a spot in a corner

Because I am a prima donna

Throw me loads of cash

Cause I’m oh so, oh so brash

Noah looked down on the miserable creature

And finding no redeeming or worthwhile feature

Cast it off the rocking boat

To hopefully sink or away float

It neither did nor intended to do

But became a barnacle instead, did that Quango-roo”

“The Quango-roo”

***

The words of the Prime Minister sparked action in the halls of power at Westminster. ‘Fill the streets of Headington’ he had ordered and from that command, everything flowed. A Quango came into being. As with most of its ilk, it was birthed at midnight on a full moon to the accompanying howls and shrieks of demons from the choirs of hell. The Quasi Non-Governmental Organisation came about not because someone needed or even wanted it. It came about because no one could stop it. It soon took on a life of its own. Its political midwife smacked its bottom and it cried out for milk.

More please, it said, and then wailed louder when it wasn’t fed fast enough. It grew at an enormous rate and quickly developed an aggressive attitude, afraid that its numerous brethren would push it away from the teat. I’m the best, I’m the brightest, you can’t do without me, it said, in order to survive. You need me.

Then it learned something. It learned that it must justify its purpose; not to the people it was supposed to serve, but to its political masters. So it asked questions, and sent memos, and reports. Paper flew right, left, and centre. Whole forests trembled for fear that they might fall under the axe to help feed the hungry, insatiable beast.

It asked, what is my mission? How can I best serve you, my Master? Someone, somewhere, within the bowels of the newly birthed organisation, did know or had known its original purpose. They had been instructed or ordered to form the thing, but time or personnel transfers or other events caught up with them and they soon forgot. On occasions, a simple inference from a powerful person was enough to cause the birth; on others, a nod and a wink. Either way, the Quango now lived and it existed simply to continue to exist.

The new Quango was called the Headington Initiative. Why? The Prime Minister had mentioned the word Headington in his conversation and because Initiative sounded inspiring. It sounded like someone would do something and that they would do it with inventiveness and flair. It was all about panache. No one could ever say that an Initiative was wrong, it can’t be. It’s one of those unassailable words in the dictionary. Words like, enterprise, ingenious or endeavour.

The Headington Initiative began operations. Several men with suitable prefixes and double-barrelled surnames took on the role of management. The new directors were not content that they had squandered billions of pounds as inept bankers in the private sector, so they decided it was time to fleece the public purse as well. Personal Assistants were hired to keep them informed of all matters to hand. The Personal Assistants soon became overwhelmed and needed Assistants themselves. The Assistants to the Personal Assistants wanted tea, and a tea lady was hired. Soon the tea lady wanted tea, and was too tired to make it herself, and so another tea lady was hired. Middle management rolled in with all their assistants and staff. Then a whole herd of tea ladies had to be hired. Then someone remembered the biscuits. They soon realised that biscuits was a specialist job, so they hired a biscuit lady. Lower management arrived next, and because the whole organisation had to look like a pyramid, due to the fact that someone had seen a book at university which said so, they came in the hundreds. Middle management watched nervously as the newcomers arrived. They were now outnumbered, and were afraid that they would lose the football match at the annual company picnic. Therefore, they recruited a retired professional footballer and gave him a comfy job with three personal assistants, and his very own tea and biscuit lady.

Then someone realised that the Headington Initiative’s pyramid had three points at the top. An expert on geometry was hired, and confirmed their suspicions that a pyramid should only have one point at the top. So, on day three in the life of the Quango two of the Heads were given Golden Handshakes and told to go and start another Quango or three. They reluctantly went to their solicitors and complained about their ill-treatment, and the government was forced to double their Golden Handshake. It turned into a Golden Massage with Body Oil and the Lotion of their Choice, plus Cucumbers on the Eyes and Organic Mud in the Pants. Aptly satisfied with pockets crammed full of money, they went on to start several more much-needed Quangos.

“Let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work,” the Head of Headington Initiative said.

“Where is Headington anyway?” someone asked.

The question was met with numerous blank stares.

“Well what are we paying you for?” the Head asked.

“Get him a map,” his personal assistant said.

Someone brought the Head a map. Then the middle level managers had to have maps. If the Head had one, then they had to have one as well. It was career suicide to be caught without a map. Maps became the new en vogue item. Of course, a map expert was hired and eventually he pinpointed the town of Headington.

“It was near Oxford all the time,” said the Head of the Headington Initiative. “I should have remembered from my university days. They,” and by they he meant the bus company, “had a number ten bus which always went to Headington, but it was for the townies, not the gownies. I dare say that we were all frightened of places like Headington, Barton and Cowley. That’s probably why I blanked out the name. It was my innate survival instinct. It’s highly developed you know.”

All the middle level managers listened intently to his number ten bus to Headington story, and for two days afterwards the tale was repeated throughout the entire organisation. Even the tea ladies had a brief on the number ten bus to Headington story.

When the number ten bus story died down, someone asked why the Head of the Headington Initiative was called the Head and not the Director or the Chief or something else much more sensible. The middle level managers all scratched their heads. They put their heads together and came up with a plan. They sent the Head of the Names and Acronyms Department in to talk to the Head of the Headington Initiative.

“Excuse me sir, but there’s talk going around the organisation.”

“There is?” the Head of the Headington Initiative asked incredulously. “How did they find out? I only took an extra pudding once. I didn’t think anyone would miss it and besides, it wasn’t labelled. Organisational protocol says that all food in the break-room refrigerator must be labelled. That pudding was out of compliance with our company policy!”

“It’s not about the pudding sir.”

“I know what it’s about. We’ve only been operational for a few days and they’re already ready to mutiny. I know that I would, with all the pudding thieves I keep hearing about. Tell me, are they going to rebel against me?”

“Well, no—”

“Stop right there. I want you to go back out and start a rumour for me.”

“You want me to start a rumour sir?”

“Yes. Tell everyone you see that there will be a twenty percent pay rise this year and that we’ll shoot the first pudding thief we catch. That should squash any thoughts of sedition.”

“But that’s not why I’m here sir.”

“It’s not?”

“No sir.”

“Well, do it anyway. Round up some likely suspects to blame for the pudding thefts. We want to head off this rebellion thing before it gathers a head of steam, so get to work on that too.”

“That’s why I’m here sir.”

“Good God! So there is a rebellion brewing. Who’s heading it?”

“I think that you are sir.”

“I’ll have to sack myself. No wait, you sack me and then I’ll sack you.”

“Technically speaking sir, if I sack you then you are no longer an employee of this organisation and therefore you can’t sack anyone, not even me.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No sir. I just came in to tell you about the talk which is going around.”

“Go on.”

“Well sir, it’s like this. People, especially middle level management type people, feel that there are too many heads in the name of our organisation.”

“Well, then do something about it. Get rid of one or change it. What are we paying you for? Get a focus group together, hire a PR firm, fire up the telephones, and send out the pollsters. Sort out this ‘too many heads thing’ and get back to me.”

“Yes sir.”

“And for God’s sake do something about this rebellion and all the pudding thefts I keep hearing about.”

“Yes sir.”

The ‘too many heads thing’ was finally very close to being resolved. The PR firm did their bit. It would be easy to rebrand Headington, they thought. The president of the PR firm was the type who took eleven-sies at half past ten and never felt guilty.

“I need names people and now,” the PR firm president said.

“Deadington,” someone suggested.

“Too laid back.”

“Redding,” someone else said.

“Already taken.”

“Sheadington.”

“That’s got ‘Head’ in it. You’re fired.”

“Winkle.”

“Too Christmassy. The God squad will hound us. Come on people, our year-end bonuses are on the line here. Do you want to spend the summer in Tahiti or not?”

The PR firm worked throughout the night. They came up with ten new names for the town of Headington, not one with the word ‘Head’ in it.

The focus group came back with their findings.

“People in London don’t care,” one of the pollsters said.

“I couldn’t find anyone who’s ever heard of the place.”

Everyone else just gave thumbs up.

“London’s onboard. We’re a go,” the leader of the focus group said.

The Headington pollsters ran into some trouble though. One of the lower level managers had actually sent them to Headington to conduct their poll. It had been a very bad idea. Only two people in Headington were in favour of re-branding the town and those two people had been tourists. Even when presented with the nifty new names from the PR firm, the people of Headington still wouldn’t budge. Just think of all the confusion and changes to our stationary, they said. One of the pollsters was never heard from again and the others all came back in various states of disrepair.

“It’s a rough place, this Headington,” one of the pollsters advised, as he nursed a black eye. “I was beaten up with a loaf of bread.”

“White or wholemeal?” the office smart-arse asked.

“I think the guy was white, but I didn’t get a good look because a loaf of bread was coming at me.”

The Head of the Headington Initiative was livid. Someone would get the sack. Heads would roll. The lower level manager was fired for using his initiative, the loss a valuable pollster, and getting a bunch more beaten up, but was rehired when he suggested that the organisation change the title of the Head of the Headington Initiative to something else instead of renaming the town. A committee was formed, which promptly formed a sub-committee. The sub-committee delegated authority down to a working group. The working group contracted out the job to an external agency. The external agency called in an international expert who eventually felt out of his depth and called an old friend who just so happened to work for the Quango in question.

“What do you guys call your Boss?”

“The Head.”

“Hey, that’s coincidental. I’ve got a contract to come up with a re-brand for an organisation just like yours.”

“Well, why don’t you suggest Director or something like that?”

“Thanks, I’ll do it. Cheers,” the international expert said, as he hung up the telephone.

So the international expert suggested the re-branding to the external agency and the external agency contacted the working group with the good news. The working group notified the sub-committee and the sub-committee proudly delivered the three thousand page report to the full committee, who were all away on holiday until Monday.

When they returned, they promptly re-branded the Head of the Headington Initiative to the Director of the Headington Initiative and gave each other a slap on the back, plus a twenty percent pay rise for clearing their first major organisational hurdle. The poor man who did the signs came in the next day.

With all the administrative details finally arranged, the Headington Initiative settled down to its business of ‘filling the streets of Headington’.

“We need someone in the street-filling department,” the Director said.

“Got just the chap,” the Head of Personnel said.

“What’s his golf handicap?” the Director asked.

“He doesn’t play golf.”

“Good, that’s just the person we need to fill holes. Hire him.”

His name was Joe.

“Kit him out,” the Director said.

“Sure thing,” the Head of Procurement said.

He rushed downstairs and briefed his department, “We need a spade and a small wheelbarrow.”

Clerks flew to see to the request.

“Don’t forget the new computers and comfy chairs for everyone else in the department,” he called after them.

The Director of the Headington Initiative sent out a memo which urged full organisational support for Joe, the spade, and the wheelbarrow. The memo read so well that he took the rest of the day off to play golf as a reward. A detachment of middle level managers went to Headington to oversee the work and to possibly locate the missing pollster. The Director asked for weekly reports from the clubhouse.

When the middle level managers sent back their first report, the Director couldn’t help but notice that another Quango was operating in their Zone of Control.

“We can’t let these guys get one over on us. Damn the weekly reports! I need daily reports!”

The other Quango matched the daily reports and soon the daily reports turned into hourly reports. The race to be the first had begun, even though neither organisation had a clear idea of the purpose of the race. A working group came up with a solution on how to beat the other Quango; Joe needed a larger wheelbarrow. His efficiency and carrying capacity could be increased by as much as fifty percent with the right tools. The small wheelbarrow was given a Golden Handshake and sent into early retirement. The middle level managers went to half-hourly reports until the crisis was resolved.

“They’re not going to beat us, even if we have to blow our whole budget on this,” the Director said. “Give Joe whatever he wants and get a Minister on the telephone, we need more money.”

Joe now moved twice as much, but he only worked half as fast, or so the quarter-hourly reports advised. The Director ordered the small wheelbarrow out of retirement and back into action. Joe complained about the switch and for a brief moment the organisation held its collective breath as its entire labour force threatened to resign. Joe was offered Golden Handcuffs with a Robust Spanking by the Assistant to the Director’s Personal Assistant, whom he had always fancied, and decided to stay on.

With the crisis over, everyone went back to their work. The Director was chauffeured back to his golf, the middle level managers waltzed back to their corner offices, the lower level managers slunk back to their cubicles, the tea ladies went back to the kitchen, and Joe went back and filled potholes in the streets of Headington. It was only when he got to New High Street that he noticed something strange, something very out of place, and it wasn’t the Headington Shark either.

Hi Rob- What would you characterize as "any feedback'? Would you like a detailed comment? What exactly would you like me to look for, and would you prefer public or private comment?