AN INCIDENT AT THE OFFICE
Sir Charles
Siddeley Armstrong CEO, Capital Investment Corporation
Sir Charles talking to Stanton Burke,
wealthy entrepreneur, at the Cadogan Club.
“Had a spot of bother the other day
while quietly totting up the current value of CIC’s art collection. Some young shaver in a waxy jacket managed to
get past security, through reception and into my office while my secretary
Monica, I call her Jane, had popped out to buy something for me to give my wife
on her birthday. He said he belonged to
one of those wretched god-bothering NGOs collecting money for World Peace. As I was thinking about putting a shilling in
his tin, he went well beyond his station and began bleating on about the
benefits of open-door immigration and why we should take tea with Johnny
foreigner. So I shot him.
“Jolly good job I had grandmother’s
old service revolver in my desk – keep it for sentimental reasons, a memento of
her military campaigns in Burma . Anyway, this chap was lucky the gun’s got a
sticky trigger and hell of a kickback – so not accurate even for short range
shooting in the office. The bullet must
have missed his todger by a whisker and gone clean through his sack of nuts
before lodging itself in the leg of one of my finest Queen Anne chairs – not
lucky for me. He made a damn awful fuss
about it and a bloody mess on the carpet.
I tried to cheer him up by saying it was probably only a flesh wound and
his todger had been saved by Goddo being on the right side of his trousers that
day, but he didn’t seem to see the funny side of it.
“While he was doubled-up on the
floor clutching his crotch with both hands, I extracted £832 from his
collection tins and jacket pockets to cover the cost of chair repairs and
carpet cleaning. I then called our chaps
in Security who eventually got up to the 14th floor and dragged him back down
to the grand hall. After a bit more
bother getting his legs through the revolving doors, they threw him out on the
street. Looking down from my office
window I must admit I admired this chap’s stoicism, staggering around on the
pavement rattling his empty tins harassing passing bankers, who we know are
very careful with their own money. I
prefer to put my spare cash into the cost-effective collection tins of well dressed
political fund raisers standing on the steps of the House of Lords.
“Later that day I got a call from
the boys in blue who said they’d received a complaint from the charity chap. I invited them over and up to my office, and
after a few questions they were happy with my assurance that I would have a
quiet word with their Commanding Officer and the Commissioner. They then went back down to take tea, not
with Johnny foreigner but with their ex-police chums in our security suite. From anonymous reports, I hear that much
raucous laughter and swivelling of chairs went on until one of them
accidentally hit a fire alarm button.
“Anyway, I did think it right and proper to reward our security chaps
with a big cash bonus for being called away from their professional tasks of
watching the CCTV screens automatically switching from one camera to another
and checking the zoom lens controls. They
also go on patrol to police their cap angles and check the symmetry of their well
groomed short goatee beards in the grand hall mirrors. Their sartorial elegance is second to none. They’ve won 1st prize three years running for
the City of London Best Kept Security
Force . But due
to their badly blood stained uniforms they were worried about winning this
year. Therefore we’ve had to quickly
commission and foot the bill for brand new bespoke uniforms with full regalia
bearing the corporation logo in 24 carat platinum braid.
“Of course HR and Accounts have been
dealing with this but it’s ultimately my responsibility for office security –
so I’ve told my secretary to carry a gun.
No idea where she keeps it – certainly haven’t seen it bulging under her
tight clothes. She said she’d rather not
be seen wearing a shoulder holster because they’re not in fashion and it
wouldn’t look right under or over her silk blouses. I suggested a concealed thigh holster, but
she said it would chafe on her stockings when crossing her legs. So I suppose she keeps the weapon in her
handbag – probably more ladylike. Some
women are fussy.
“Trouble is, reading between the
lines of an HR fe-mail, the chaps in security are just as fussy about wearing
guns and holsters that would chafe on their legs, nipples and armpits, and
distress the smooth lines of their well pressed uniforms. I do hope they’re not
going girly and start asking for handbags.
HR also tells me they don’t want to soil their uniforms by getting
sweaty chasing fleet-footed goody-two-shoes mercenary die-hards up to the 14th
floor. So for ultra tight belt and
braces security I’ve given strict instructions to Jane, or is it Monica, to
stay on guard at her desk and shoot these bloody tin-rattling bastards before
they get to my door. She’ll just have to
get someone else to buy presents for my wife.
Can’t have bullets flying around my office damaging the furniture and
the art works.
“Since the incident, the
Commissioner and the CPS have quite rightly tossed aside all allegations
against me, including armed robbery and attempted murder. They will however be charging the charity
chap with unauthorised entry, trespass and demanding money with menaces. When he’s out of A&E and had his
unexpected vasectomy reversed, he’ll have his day in court. If he’s found guilty I’ll instruct our legal
eagles to sue him and his World Peace wallers for all costs and sizeable
damages for disturbing the peace and well-being of our sensitive security staff
who, according to HR, say they now have nightmares when napping on the night
shift.
“This doesn’t surprise me. When I first saw this chap in my office,
wearing a bum-freezer jacket too tight and too short to keep a brass monkey’s
balls warm, I thought he was queer – or wearing his sister’s clothes. But I just didn’t have enough time to tell
which side his buttons were buttoned before grabbing the gun.
“Stanton dear fellow, you’re known as a man of
many parts, a man of the world – do you think these young shavers enjoy certain
psycho-sexual pleasures from various forms of uncertain mild or indeed wild
masochism by being ignored, abused or shot for their passive guilt-instilling
beggardom? Did this charity chap really
want me to send him on his way with only a flea in his ear and a penny in his
pot? Or was he auguring my ire about
nicey-nicey PC immigration perverts to the point of refusal and a spontaneous
response via the rusty barrel of grandma’s gun?
If he was getting turned on by masochistic martyrdom, he certainly came
close to getting it.
“It reminds me of the long gone days
of yore when that self proclaimed young gun-of-a-sod went wandering about in the
Middle East looking for a cross to bear – so what’s new about seducing someone
in authority to assist in super-egotistical suicide?
“Actually, I could feel quite sorry
for those post-modern rabid religiosos with a bomb belt, hell bent on instant
induction to heaven with 78 virgins. My
wife is demanding enough – whenever I get a day off. But she’s a good old fruit. She’s completely refurbished our New York
apartment, commissioned a new virile crew to man our yacht in the Bahamas and
sent our two boys, James and Jeremy, off with Prince Harry for what she calls ‘man-up
stuff’ trekking across the South Pole, albeit with film crews, helicopters and
catering vans.
“I wanted our boys to sign on for Sandhurst – get stuck in with real men – learn how to get
measured for tailor-made top brass uniforms – take command and order their
chaps to shoot the enemy. But James
tells me the MOD is cutting back on khaki cloth and foreign tours in sweaty
theatres. And if he and his brother were
to join the army, the only world they’d see is Salisbury Plain when sent out to
play with their weapons.
“Heard from our friend the Brigadier
the other day, and he said the MOD has now cut back on all new recruiting,
except for a few young high-tech computer geeks with delicate hands and
sensitive fingers. Apparently, they’ve
got a gentle touch on the remote controls that drive drones and press buttons
to make surgical strikes on long distance targets – without too much collateral
damage of course. If this carries on, our
brave boys in boots-on-the-ground won’t have any shooting to do – they’ll just
be left with twitchy trigger fingers – no use to man nor beast. I think the army’s gone soft.
“Sadly, my sons also seem to be
going soft. Instead of a man’s career in
the army, or high risk hedge funds, or commando selling in shadow banking
operations – they’re both going to go with the girls and study Media Studies –
whatever they are. Seems to me the whole
country’s gone soft in the head with new-fangled software – let alone women
bishops and queer weddings. I can’t even
get the Bentley out of the garage without some sat nav harridan telling me what
to do.
“Where was I – ah yes, the little
wife. Well, not so little these days and
she certainly hasn’t gone soft – got tougher actually. What with her acting as Clerk of Works for
the construction of a new subterranean Olympic size swimming pool with a deeper
than deep deep-end and high diving board underneath our Pimlico house, she’s
dealing with hostilities from our new neighbours – Russian and Arab oilygarchs
planning to build helicopter pads on their roofs. If that’s not enough to cope with, she’s also
hosting long lunches with the wives of Chinese billionaires in order to promote
her sissy brother’s company’s new range of luxurious English lingerie for the
little Eastern lady. While I admire my
wife’s sisterly loyalty to her younger brother, I’m not entirely convinced that
a few decorative undergarments will prevent rich little husbands from getting
entangled between the long legs of white Western supermodels.
“But if those cheeky Chinese
chappies are here to dump their dirty money into building British nuclear power
stations and fracking gas from the undisturbed depths of England ’s green
and pleasant land, I’ll use more than grandma’s gun to remove whatever
surpluses of financial sperm they may currently possess. World peace, my arse – more like a
politically correct World War three waged by nouveau riche insurgents. Wouldn’t surprise me if they put in an offer
to buy Buck House, but Liz will never sell – and Phil can shoot them down with
some colourful remarks about their national characteristics. Let’s face it, we’re thousands of years away
from living in a cosy global village.
“By the way, Reg Fortescue from the
FSA rang the other day saying he’d like his team to have a routine look at our
books. But I think he was really looking
for another 18 holes – so I’ve invited him up to the club. He’s got a lazy eye, a dicky hip and a stiff
swing but if I happen to get stuck in the rough, he’ll win and go home happy. Better get him some Royal Box tickets for
Ascot and Wimbledon . We didn’t get to where we are today without
getting to where we are.
“I must say Stanton
old chap, I’ll be a lot happier when Jane, Monica whatever her name is, gets
back from three days compassionate leave to visit her elderly mother in New Zealand .
These young temp secs may be top notch typists but they haven’t got a clue
about buying presents and handling guns.
“Just bought another Matisse – must
say it looks a lot better in the boardroom than the Pollock.”
Meanwhile
the wind howled high up on the Himalayas and low down in London between tall buildings.