The following are excerpts of the soon-to-be-shredded diaries of Warren Peas, known affectionately as the janitor. For the last ten or fifty years, Peas has been the man who goes to clean up the mess after a country has gone down the pan. He is, to all intents and porpoises, the man responsible for coordinating the forgotten art of nation-building.
January 10th 1920, 2019, 2002, 0220 I couldnt knowingly say.
Arrived in Gafturkeystan at 08.00 hours and fifty-three cents. Intelligence warned it would be too perilous (not the word they used) to fly in by aircraft, so I flew in by hot-air balloon instead, thereby simultaneously saving the equal commodities known as the environment and my butt. A few jocular rebels welcomed the balloon with a barrage of traditional pot-shots that was a joy to behold, and before I had time to re-stitch the damaged logo, the deflating Coke can was hurtling towards the earth at the speed of an F-16.
Thus far I am the only known survivor, but then I was also the only one aboard, so the figures look good for the report. I remain excited about executing my duty, if my duty doesnt execute me first, and as I gawp around at the bleak dusty wasteland, a clan of locals hacking playfully at my neck, I cannot help but think this mission may prove my lasting legacy or my last legs, as we say in the business.
January 11th
Met with leaders of both parties, the Mountaingaffs and Decapulets. Between them they had lost enough limbs to add another man to the death toll of this needlessly bloody conflict a three legged one at that. I asked if they thought it had all been worth it, and, movingly, they hung their heads in shame, signifying both deep remorse and the advanced stages of a head louse epidemic.
[Problem no.1 hygiene. Where can we obtain some, and is that really the most effective way to spell it?]
It didnt take long for the tent to overcrowd as word got round about my misguided offer of movie contracts to the repentant. I think were looking at a large-scale production along the lines of Ben Hur only with less chariots and more charity. Perhaps I was wrong to accept that topspin backhander from the Hollywood studio. Find us some cheap extras! they said. And dont come back empty-bandaged.
January 14th
We still await the arrival of the team of nation-builders. They are now four days late and I am getting tired of waiting around the tent all day in case they suddenly show up, peering out the flap every time I hear a promising noise. The impatience of the leaders grows by the minute, and they are threatening to cut off my gas supplies one by one if some progress isnt seen soon. Progress? I pleaded, But youre against progress, arent you? They replied by pulling my leg, twisting my arm and tickling my fancy. Its interesting how quickly they go from medieval to ultra-modern in their demands.
January 15th
The nation-builders arrived at 06.00 hours this morning and immediately set to work, drilling, pumping and gushing directly outside my tent. I asked them where they had gotten to, and they told me a tear-jerking story about my missus having made the appointment for today, at my expense, and how they had been stranded in the Costa Del Sol for the last two weeks, unable to work or tear themselves away from their villas, and how they only took cash in hand, and couldnt promise anything guvnor.
My dumb-mouthed protests fell on deaf ears, and they slapped an invoice for a weeks work on my back as I limped away in defeat. I am watching them now, in the autumn of their current tea-break, their backsides protruding from their beltless pantaloons, and their tabloids spread out over their dozing faces. I fear we are in for the long-haul.
January 16th
This morning, much to my chagrin and the bellicosity of everyone, the architects of peace arrived, along with the rival partners from the architects of government. It was hard to tell them apart, decked out universally in Nehru suits, polo necks, Grade 1 haircuts and rimless spectacles. To a man, they were pretending to be German. To break the icebergs, I reminded them of my having co-co-or-ordinated the rebuilding of Deutschland after the Second World War. Unfortunately they had never heard of the conflict and began to yak on about streamlined spatial contours in the regeneration of postmodern urban centres.
The project as a whole is suffering badly from a lack of central management (my role) and the structural architects are now busy designing something that the nation-builders began knocking-up yesterday. Already, rows have broken out, as the builders erroneously connected the water taps up to the oil wells, and the architects, ever aesthetically pedantic and minimally snobbish, have monotonally accused them of using the wrong design of tap. As a result, within the first fifteen minutes, the builders had torn down everything thus far erected and tramped out looking for new fixings. The architects dropped their protractors and did lunch.
January 17th
This morning I found myself cornered by the architects, who, back after a big night of excessive blueprinting, had a few bones of mine to pick. They complained that their design for the new political system relies on a better class of occupier than the rag-tag bunch of vagabonds they had so far encountered in this ancient and historic dust-bowl. They rightly argued that the plans for special underground parking for Mercedes might go wasted, and that the titanium-plated kitchens in the loft apartments could be subject to misuse.
I tried to reason with them, handing round a few sketches of mine for a commune of mud huts, but I fear all is lost. Within the minute they were referring to my unique and innovative vision for a community of individual lifestyle dynamics, and smacking me on the thighs. They burst from the tent to the drawing boards, where the new nation is now being marked in lead.
January 18th
The builders have returned with new fittings and a generous quota of bacon sarnies. They told me in their own unique way how the quote I was given was based on an initial misjudgement of the complexity of the job. It seems that rather than the expected three weeks at the most, the completion date remains a couple of generations away, at least. After an awkward silence in which they stood around me, spanners in hand, picking at their teeth, I caved in, telling them repeatedly how fine that was as the tears swelled in my eyes.
To give them their due something I have to line their wallets with by the hour they launched into the job of cementing a society free from religious intolerance. Amid their blasphemous cursing, I stood amazed at the rapidity with which they would fight off the evil-doers with their evil-spirit levels. Thats the end of spirituality in this joint! barked one of the more well-mannered chaps, ogling a young mademoiselle posing as a missionary in his magazine.
January 19th
Disaster has struck. As chief foreman, I never fail to scarper when the money-men arrive, but today the financiers dropped in just as I was negotiating my golden parachute and caught me green-fingered, dollar signs flashing in my eyes, only my head and shoulders visible out of the oil slick in which I was bathing. They brought sour news. I am not the only one to lose out on this deal. The good people of Gafturkeystan might fair no better and without the complimentary shower accoutrement that I have been promised.
The heroic nation-builders, perched at the time on top of a pile of rubble they had expertly constructed, fled to the hills, Cup-a-Soups in hand. The cash council was quick to pour scorn on the desolate economy and hurl rocks at the surveyors hut. They have decided, in their wisdom, that the aid budget is to be replaced with the aid debt, leaving the letters u and g with nothing to do except form the word Ug, a favourite with aspirant politicos in the neanderthal era, and currently back in fashion.
January 20th
My cornerstones not properly laid, the foundations diagnosed as non-existent mate, my cash run out, and abandoned by my donkey, it was time to do the honourable thing and withdraw, moving silently on to the next victim. As I stuffed the dressing gowns and towels into my suitcase and folded up my tent I took one last look around, so as to forever forget the dump.
It was the most terrifying sight I ever saw. An army of millions rubber-stamping over the horizon. Each last one of them hell-bent on destruction. Ready to rape and pillage their way through town after town, nation after nation, chequebook after chequebook. Not me kiddo, I wasnt staying to fight. I might be brave, but Im not crazy. Paint me any way you want, but youll never catch me messing with the lawyers.
