With a general election in the UK imminent (and the possibility of a well-hung parliament), politicians have been eagerly trying to woo the electorate with all sorts of outlandish pledges. T.V. pundits abound and makeup departments have already bulk ordered tangerine-coloured war paint and drafted in extra morticians.
Rather than relying on party manifestos, battle lines have been drawn up in T.V. studios. The cult of the personality, as ever, prevails over substance. Those premiership hopefuls aspiring to become first among equals have adopted a distinctly presidential-style approach in courting public favour. Afterall, such vulgarity has come to pervade the very syntax of our age.
In the midst of all the muckraking and crossed words, ‘media-savvy’ contenders are plumbing new depths of the televisual medium to captivate hearts with admen-inspired slogans. Meanwhile, Australian media moguls can once again indulge their Machiavellian pastime of playing kingmaker. (Well, I suppose it makes a change from hacking mobile phones.)
My next short story aims to provide a natural conclusion to all the media-obsessed politicking. I can only hope that this very hastily written effort ticks the right box…?
The Bullshit Detector
‘Day thirty-two in the Big Brother household and tensions are running high. Montague and Hamish are in the living room…’
‘Gosh, at least if I’d been some silicon-enhanced glamour puss I’d find my next shag in here.’ Montague Fitzclarence speculated to himself on the gaudy sofa, oblivious to the efficacy hidden microphones. No matter how one looked at it, attempting to crest those mercurial populist sentiments on reality television was akin to alchemy. He regarded his rival, Hamish McDougall who was the incumbent Prime Minister. He was engrossed in a printout of a recent popularity poll and muttering to himself dourly.
‘Attention housemates. As a reward for successfully completing the latest task of fiddling your expenses budget, we’ll be installing a duck house in the Big Brother garden.’ A transcendent voice cooed. ‘You’ll also receive a goodies hamper and a selection of electrical plugs and adult DVDs.’
Leopold Drake immediately opened an eye with a yawn. ‘Hmm…anything involving SS uniforms, I wonder?’ he murmured to himself, still feeling disoriented.
‘Oh God, this is torture…the boredom, I mean!’ Montague exclaimed. ‘It’s almost worth playing the bastard simply to get out of this bloody place.’
Leopold looked askance at him, attempting once more to discern any hints of foreign ancestry.
‘The only thing worth looking at is Agatha Greenleaf.’ Montague smirked. ‘I mean, she can test my emissions any time she likes. Mind you, the nearest I’ve got to going green was after that unfortunate encounter with Madam Whippy…’
Shortly, red light began blinking above a service hatch. Hamish immediately looked up and eagerly made his way towards it. ‘Afternoon tea,’ he remarked, inspecting the contents of the dumbwaiter. He returned with the tray and set about pouring tea. ‘You’ll be taking tea and Dundee cake?’ He said, addressing Montague sternly.
‘Erm, no actually. Think I’ll wait for the hamper. Rather fancy something a little more medicinal if you catch my drift old boy.’
Hamish’s face soured somewhat. ‘I said, you’ll be taking some tea. Tea, you’ll have aye?’
‘Erm, I thought I’d been perfectly clear on that point, don’t you? No thanks, okay? No!’ He snapped.
Hamish pulled a hangdog expression and ham-fistedly dumped a steaming cup in front of his challenger. ‘Tea it is then. And just so as you know - in my part of the world, it’s only the ill-mannered who refuse a person’s hospitality.’
‘Hospitality my arse!’ Montague sneered. He got up and positioned his teddy bear in his place. ‘Listen, why don’t you chat to Margaret here, yes? You can both amuse yourselves with different ways of getting stuffed.’
Hamish glowered belligerently at the stuffed toy and began cramming cake into his mouth. Leopold partook of the cake but avoided a ‘drink of Indian origin’. Agatha did likewise since there was no way of telling if it was a fair trade product.
Shortly Montague sidled up to her flashing his ‘winning smile’. ‘So,’ he said, perching on the arm of the sofa ‘have you tried the Jacuzzi yet Aggers?’
‘Erm, I don’t think so somehow,’ she said looking him up and down.
‘Okay, just a thought. I mean, what else is there to do in this wretched asylum? At least if we were on the BBC we could play a game of ‘spot the heterosexual.’’
‘Bigot!’ Hamish hurled. He returned his attentions to the printout. His aids had insisted that he appeared on Big Brother – but why? True, it was sobering to note that the programme attracted more voters than the entire democratic process. Viewers, apparently, hung on every word and gesture. Consequently, housemates were obliged to ‘sham’ their way through the entire charade. Indeed, as an exercise in artifice, reality TV’s great flagship was unparalleled.
* * *
‘We’ll return to the household in a moment, but first, an interview with Dr. Seth Babcock, who’s devised an ingenious surprise for our housemates.’ A hawk-faced woman turned to face the disheveled looking academic.
‘Indeed, yes Muriel. My Bio-synaptic Audio-dynamic Translator, or BAT system, represents a quantum leap in lie detection. Unlike the polygraph, sensors examine a range of physiological patterns ranging from brain activity, vocal cadence and micro-expressions and correlate them against statistical probabilities. So…’
‘But,’ Muriel butted in shamelessly, ‘what does all this mean to the layperson. I mean, put very simply, how does your invention affect the housemates?’
Dr. Babcock glared at his interviewer. ‘I would have thought that was obvious? BAT not only recognises duplicity, but it also converts lies into truth. I’m sure you’ll agree, this is revolutionary…’
‘So, for the sake of our viewers, you’re saying that you’ve created a kind of ‘bullshit detector’?
‘In short,’ the doctor grinned, ‘yes, I suppose I have. In fact, the device has three settings; lies can be replaced by animal noises or simply by silence. Alternatively, and most interestingly, lies can be replaced by the truth. Obviously, the ‘truth’ setting is the most intriguing…’
* * *
‘Attention housemates, it’s time for the diary room. Montague, please make your way to our Catholic-inspired confession cubicle.’
‘Fuck.’ Montague perplexed.
‘Well…erm…’ Hamish deliberated.
The other housemates glanced anxiously at their environs; some considering the level of contempt with in which the so-called interior designer held them to produce such a garish monstrosity.
‘Okay…great,’ Montague blustered. Reluctantly, he made his way over to the small room, closing the door behind him.
‘How are you, Montague?’ The unfeasibly inane question boomed with omnipotent feminine menace.
‘Fine. The Conservative party are fine too…winners…as you know. In fact, we’re by far the best party to NAAY-EEYOOR this country.’
‘So Montague, the expenses exposé…how will you address it if you come to power?’
Montague cleared his throat, somewhat ruffled by the inexplicable outburst of farmyard noises; ‘My party believe in BAAA-BAAAH! Erm…Politics should be an inviolable contract between electorate and elected based on MOO, MEOW and WOOF-WOOF. We’ll ensure that those caught with their snouts in the trough face a rigorous and thorough OINK-OINK!…’
‘Hmm..go on…an interesting metaphor about snouts in the trough. Very ‘Animal Farm’…’
‘Erm…Big Brother…there appears to be something awry with the microphone…do you…erm…?’ Montague flustered. ‘I erm…seem to have hecklers…?’
‘Please continue Montague. The microphone isn’t faulty. The fault may lie elsewhere…’
‘Ah.’ Montague commented irritably.
‘And so how will you tackle concerns that you’ll cut back on the provision of healthcare?’
‘Well, we in the Conservative party believe in a BAARK-BUCK-BUCK system. Erm…listen Big Brother, frankly, I’m getting a little pee’d off with all these bloody interruptions. Would you care to explain what the hell’s going on?’ Montague complained testily.
‘Thank you Montague. You can return to the Big Brother household now.’
Montague gave a derisive snort. ‘Oh great. Thanks.’
‘Aubrey Van Krock, will you come to the diary room.’
Aubrey swaggered in, turning his orange baseball cap backwards. ‘Yo, Big Bro.’
‘Aubrey, what are your thoughts on immigration?’
Aubrey began setting out his stall but there was silence. This was followed by more silence punctuated by the occasional ‘if’ and ‘but’. A very disgruntled Aubrey stormed out of the diary room.
‘Hamish? The diary room awaits you.’
The incumbent Prime Minister shuffled into the diary room. The ‘Bullshit Detector was toggled from silent mode to truth mode. There was everything to play for.
'So, Hamish, do you have the popular mandate?’
‘No,’ Hamish flinched since he’d said ‘yes’.
‘The expenses scandal…share your thoughts.’
‘Ah yes, good. The Labour party will do everything in our power not to be EXPOSED AGAIN.’ Hamish looked puzzled. What he’d said was ‘I’ll endeavour to curtail corruption,’ but somehow within the onward journey from microphone to speaker an error had occurred. He continued, ‘We’ll introduce measures to veil politicians’ self-serving greed from the electorate.’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘Furthermore, I intend to personally take it upon myself to CONSIDER FELLATIO in order to avoid future embezzlement.’ Hamish coughed awkwardly. ‘
‘And so how will you tackle the Immigration concerns?’
I stand here, IMMERSED IN DOGMA ADOPTING A SELF-DEPRECATING yet strident tone.’
‘Go on,’ The monotone voice goaded. So how do you propose to retain power?’
‘Well, there’s three stages of prime ministerial ambition; unctuous, unrealistic and then unassailable…then; get an agent, find God, hit the lecture circuit and make obscene amounts of money. Meanwhile, one absently wishes history might remember one with kindness.’
Hamish scowled. It appeared that what he’d said and was being undermined by what he'd thought but never wished to give expression to.
Thank you, Hamish. Elucidating, I’m sure.’
* * *
‘You’d care for some whisky?’ Montague simpered.
Hamish glared at him. ‘No!’
‘Prick!’ Montague commented absently, extracting a fleck of thread from his trousers.
‘A ‘prick’ eh? Are you cocking a snoop? Bloody Sassenach!’ Hamish growled.
‘Oh excuse me? A Sassenach? I’ve read the reports of your volcanic temper. Hardly conducive for someone in power…’
All of a sudden Hamish leapt on his counterpart and wrestled him to the floor. In the fracas, his trousers and underpants were ripped downwards revealing an impressive fully erect cock coalescing over a gargantuan pair of pendulous bollocks.
‘Lick that ass! Lick that damn arse!’ Hamish demanded, straddling his rival and pressing his advantage.
Being a politician, Montague was accustomed to being Janus-faced but being ‘anus-faced’ had altogether different connotations. But at least in made a change from ending up with egg on his face...
* * *
‘Wye-eye mun. That’s all the coverage fo’ today. Don’t forget that you’n vote to evict a housemate on the number below. Just gizza rim…erm, that’s ring…ah a ring. Startin’ now on More4, you’ve got a choice of more low budget spin-off shows with mind-numbingly banal highlights. Meanwhile, here on Channel Four, stay tuned for ‘Brain Drain’ – a documentary about programme makers who make programmes about programme makers who cater for those who’ve been lobotomised.’
‘...Erm, have they turned that machine off yet...?’
Rather than relying on party manifestos, battle lines have been drawn up in T.V. studios. The cult of the personality, as ever, prevails over substance. Those premiership hopefuls aspiring to become first among equals have adopted a distinctly presidential-style approach in courting public favour. Afterall, such vulgarity has come to pervade the very syntax of our age.
In the midst of all the muckraking and crossed words, ‘media-savvy’ contenders are plumbing new depths of the televisual medium to captivate hearts with admen-inspired slogans. Meanwhile, Australian media moguls can once again indulge their Machiavellian pastime of playing kingmaker. (Well, I suppose it makes a change from hacking mobile phones.)
My next short story aims to provide a natural conclusion to all the media-obsessed politicking. I can only hope that this very hastily written effort ticks the right box…?
The Bullshit Detector
‘Day thirty-two in the Big Brother household and tensions are running high. Montague and Hamish are in the living room…’
‘Gosh, at least if I’d been some silicon-enhanced glamour puss I’d find my next shag in here.’ Montague Fitzclarence speculated to himself on the gaudy sofa, oblivious to the efficacy hidden microphones. No matter how one looked at it, attempting to crest those mercurial populist sentiments on reality television was akin to alchemy. He regarded his rival, Hamish McDougall who was the incumbent Prime Minister. He was engrossed in a printout of a recent popularity poll and muttering to himself dourly.
‘Attention housemates. As a reward for successfully completing the latest task of fiddling your expenses budget, we’ll be installing a duck house in the Big Brother garden.’ A transcendent voice cooed. ‘You’ll also receive a goodies hamper and a selection of electrical plugs and adult DVDs.’
Leopold Drake immediately opened an eye with a yawn. ‘Hmm…anything involving SS uniforms, I wonder?’ he murmured to himself, still feeling disoriented.
‘Oh God, this is torture…the boredom, I mean!’ Montague exclaimed. ‘It’s almost worth playing the bastard simply to get out of this bloody place.’
Leopold looked askance at him, attempting once more to discern any hints of foreign ancestry.
‘The only thing worth looking at is Agatha Greenleaf.’ Montague smirked. ‘I mean, she can test my emissions any time she likes. Mind you, the nearest I’ve got to going green was after that unfortunate encounter with Madam Whippy…’
Shortly, red light began blinking above a service hatch. Hamish immediately looked up and eagerly made his way towards it. ‘Afternoon tea,’ he remarked, inspecting the contents of the dumbwaiter. He returned with the tray and set about pouring tea. ‘You’ll be taking tea and Dundee cake?’ He said, addressing Montague sternly.
‘Erm, no actually. Think I’ll wait for the hamper. Rather fancy something a little more medicinal if you catch my drift old boy.’
Hamish’s face soured somewhat. ‘I said, you’ll be taking some tea. Tea, you’ll have aye?’
‘Erm, I thought I’d been perfectly clear on that point, don’t you? No thanks, okay? No!’ He snapped.
Hamish pulled a hangdog expression and ham-fistedly dumped a steaming cup in front of his challenger. ‘Tea it is then. And just so as you know - in my part of the world, it’s only the ill-mannered who refuse a person’s hospitality.’
‘Hospitality my arse!’ Montague sneered. He got up and positioned his teddy bear in his place. ‘Listen, why don’t you chat to Margaret here, yes? You can both amuse yourselves with different ways of getting stuffed.’
Hamish glowered belligerently at the stuffed toy and began cramming cake into his mouth. Leopold partook of the cake but avoided a ‘drink of Indian origin’. Agatha did likewise since there was no way of telling if it was a fair trade product.
Shortly Montague sidled up to her flashing his ‘winning smile’. ‘So,’ he said, perching on the arm of the sofa ‘have you tried the Jacuzzi yet Aggers?’
‘Erm, I don’t think so somehow,’ she said looking him up and down.
‘Okay, just a thought. I mean, what else is there to do in this wretched asylum? At least if we were on the BBC we could play a game of ‘spot the heterosexual.’’
‘Bigot!’ Hamish hurled. He returned his attentions to the printout. His aids had insisted that he appeared on Big Brother – but why? True, it was sobering to note that the programme attracted more voters than the entire democratic process. Viewers, apparently, hung on every word and gesture. Consequently, housemates were obliged to ‘sham’ their way through the entire charade. Indeed, as an exercise in artifice, reality TV’s great flagship was unparalleled.
* * *
‘We’ll return to the household in a moment, but first, an interview with Dr. Seth Babcock, who’s devised an ingenious surprise for our housemates.’ A hawk-faced woman turned to face the disheveled looking academic.
‘Indeed, yes Muriel. My Bio-synaptic Audio-dynamic Translator, or BAT system, represents a quantum leap in lie detection. Unlike the polygraph, sensors examine a range of physiological patterns ranging from brain activity, vocal cadence and micro-expressions and correlate them against statistical probabilities. So…’
‘But,’ Muriel butted in shamelessly, ‘what does all this mean to the layperson. I mean, put very simply, how does your invention affect the housemates?’
Dr. Babcock glared at his interviewer. ‘I would have thought that was obvious? BAT not only recognises duplicity, but it also converts lies into truth. I’m sure you’ll agree, this is revolutionary…’
‘So, for the sake of our viewers, you’re saying that you’ve created a kind of ‘bullshit detector’?
‘In short,’ the doctor grinned, ‘yes, I suppose I have. In fact, the device has three settings; lies can be replaced by animal noises or simply by silence. Alternatively, and most interestingly, lies can be replaced by the truth. Obviously, the ‘truth’ setting is the most intriguing…’
* * *
‘Attention housemates, it’s time for the diary room. Montague, please make your way to our Catholic-inspired confession cubicle.’
‘Fuck.’ Montague perplexed.
‘Well…erm…’ Hamish deliberated.
The other housemates glanced anxiously at their environs; some considering the level of contempt with in which the so-called interior designer held them to produce such a garish monstrosity.
‘Okay…great,’ Montague blustered. Reluctantly, he made his way over to the small room, closing the door behind him.
‘How are you, Montague?’ The unfeasibly inane question boomed with omnipotent feminine menace.
‘Fine. The Conservative party are fine too…winners…as you know. In fact, we’re by far the best party to NAAY-EEYOOR this country.’
‘So Montague, the expenses exposé…how will you address it if you come to power?’
Montague cleared his throat, somewhat ruffled by the inexplicable outburst of farmyard noises; ‘My party believe in BAAA-BAAAH! Erm…Politics should be an inviolable contract between electorate and elected based on MOO, MEOW and WOOF-WOOF. We’ll ensure that those caught with their snouts in the trough face a rigorous and thorough OINK-OINK!…’
‘Hmm..go on…an interesting metaphor about snouts in the trough. Very ‘Animal Farm’…’
‘Erm…Big Brother…there appears to be something awry with the microphone…do you…erm…?’ Montague flustered. ‘I erm…seem to have hecklers…?’
‘Please continue Montague. The microphone isn’t faulty. The fault may lie elsewhere…’
‘Ah.’ Montague commented irritably.
‘And so how will you tackle concerns that you’ll cut back on the provision of healthcare?’
‘Well, we in the Conservative party believe in a BAARK-BUCK-BUCK system. Erm…listen Big Brother, frankly, I’m getting a little pee’d off with all these bloody interruptions. Would you care to explain what the hell’s going on?’ Montague complained testily.
‘Thank you Montague. You can return to the Big Brother household now.’
Montague gave a derisive snort. ‘Oh great. Thanks.’
‘Aubrey Van Krock, will you come to the diary room.’
Aubrey swaggered in, turning his orange baseball cap backwards. ‘Yo, Big Bro.’
‘Aubrey, what are your thoughts on immigration?’
Aubrey began setting out his stall but there was silence. This was followed by more silence punctuated by the occasional ‘if’ and ‘but’. A very disgruntled Aubrey stormed out of the diary room.
‘Hamish? The diary room awaits you.’
The incumbent Prime Minister shuffled into the diary room. The ‘Bullshit Detector was toggled from silent mode to truth mode. There was everything to play for.
'So, Hamish, do you have the popular mandate?’
‘No,’ Hamish flinched since he’d said ‘yes’.
‘The expenses scandal…share your thoughts.’
‘Ah yes, good. The Labour party will do everything in our power not to be EXPOSED AGAIN.’ Hamish looked puzzled. What he’d said was ‘I’ll endeavour to curtail corruption,’ but somehow within the onward journey from microphone to speaker an error had occurred. He continued, ‘We’ll introduce measures to veil politicians’ self-serving greed from the electorate.’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘Furthermore, I intend to personally take it upon myself to CONSIDER FELLATIO in order to avoid future embezzlement.’ Hamish coughed awkwardly. ‘
‘And so how will you tackle the Immigration concerns?’
I stand here, IMMERSED IN DOGMA ADOPTING A SELF-DEPRECATING yet strident tone.’
‘Go on,’ The monotone voice goaded. So how do you propose to retain power?’
‘Well, there’s three stages of prime ministerial ambition; unctuous, unrealistic and then unassailable…then; get an agent, find God, hit the lecture circuit and make obscene amounts of money. Meanwhile, one absently wishes history might remember one with kindness.’
Hamish scowled. It appeared that what he’d said and was being undermined by what he'd thought but never wished to give expression to.
Thank you, Hamish. Elucidating, I’m sure.’
* * *
‘You’d care for some whisky?’ Montague simpered.
Hamish glared at him. ‘No!’
‘Prick!’ Montague commented absently, extracting a fleck of thread from his trousers.
‘A ‘prick’ eh? Are you cocking a snoop? Bloody Sassenach!’ Hamish growled.
‘Oh excuse me? A Sassenach? I’ve read the reports of your volcanic temper. Hardly conducive for someone in power…’
All of a sudden Hamish leapt on his counterpart and wrestled him to the floor. In the fracas, his trousers and underpants were ripped downwards revealing an impressive fully erect cock coalescing over a gargantuan pair of pendulous bollocks.
‘Lick that ass! Lick that damn arse!’ Hamish demanded, straddling his rival and pressing his advantage.
Being a politician, Montague was accustomed to being Janus-faced but being ‘anus-faced’ had altogether different connotations. But at least in made a change from ending up with egg on his face...
* * *
‘Wye-eye mun. That’s all the coverage fo’ today. Don’t forget that you’n vote to evict a housemate on the number below. Just gizza rim…erm, that’s ring…ah a ring. Startin’ now on More4, you’ve got a choice of more low budget spin-off shows with mind-numbingly banal highlights. Meanwhile, here on Channel Four, stay tuned for ‘Brain Drain’ – a documentary about programme makers who make programmes about programme makers who cater for those who’ve been lobotomised.’
‘...Erm, have they turned that machine off yet...?’
© Edwin Black
