Chris Philph Diary of a Nobody's Nobody (2)

Chris Philph Diary of a Nobody's Nobody (2)

 

March 2

Nadine calls back (he's a good old stick)

“Well Filth,” says he “ I cannot do better than refer you to my forthcoming book

'No Jobbie Too Small; No Jobbie Too Large' (Sequel to Baghdad Bulldog)

Publication to coincide with Thames Water disappearing down its own leaky waste pipe. It's 20 Smackers advance order or 25 for a signed copy – I'll put you down for 2 signed copies. There are 3 'must read' chapters, Philth.

Chapter 1: Choose The Right Horse

We have a saying down at my stables ' Never back a gelding – he's got no balls!' (Nadine chuckles down the phone). So you were right not to nail your colours to the 'Half-mast Trouser Man'. But throwing your weight behind the Lettuce – Big mistake. Quasi was always going to expose you as, (how can I put it?) Challenged in the Abacus Department.

No, Fillett, Old chap, it was at that point you should have played the long game. To use an equine metaphor – why back the winner of the Stratford Gymkhana when you could put that money on the filly who'll win the Cheltenham Gold Cup!”

“ You've lost me a bit there Nadine, Old Sport' “ says I.

“ C'mon Pimple, engage the old grey matter, what I'm saying is... Don't put your money on the Dishi One' cause he's going to screw up. Put your money on one of the other fillies, who are on the gallops waiting for their chance at landing the big prize.”

“ But what does that mean,” I enquire. “Is it the Pompey Belly Flopper? Cruella de Braverperson? Kemi, the Badass? The Indestructable Lettuce? Where do I put my money?

“ Well that is up to you, of course, but I see Badass out in front with no-one coming up on the rails.Although Pompey Lass may be worth an each way bet... Now Chapter 2...

Chapter 2: Just the Jobbie

 

Never say no to any job offered by No.10. It will always involve shifting shit (and believe you me there's more flowing out of No.10 than the overflow at Brighton Beach)Make it known that you're game for anything. My finest hour was defending Boris's Bum-Pincher, I tied old Laurie Kinkisberg up in knots, nearly cost her her Sunday Show 'Cose up to Kkinsberg'. Make yourself indispensible, Filth, Old Son.

“ Certainly up for that,Nad but when I fronted up over Dick Sharp, they said I was awful, in fact hopeless” says I “That dreadful Dis Crace at the Guardian said that I wore being humiliated as a badge of honour."

“As indeed it is, Filph. What you must come to appreciate is 'the Paradox of the Shit Shifter' i.e. 'Awful is good ; Hopeless is better.'

You see your job is to make 'THEM' look better than YOU. The people out there need to be thinking ' My god, THEY'RE bad but at least we don't have HIM. Anyway, on with Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Obfuscation, Obfuscation, Obfuscation:

 Now this is unum prae omnibus, (as The Bojjer used to say) 'the one above all others': never answer a question directly. There will be occasions when you have to lie but always try for a half-truth or an assertion that cannot be proven to be wrong. In short, learn the art of OBFUSCATION. It has a language all of its own , My Lad, (I think Nad is warming to me) and you have to learn it fast. Any old hoo, I must get back to the stables, as I've left the stable door open; ha! ha!

Pip!Pip! Philf... don't you think you ought to change that name... just a thought.”

“ Oh no, I was named Chris after my wonderful Grandad.”

But Nad's gone, as indeed is my Grandpa.

March 3

I've decided to act on Nad's excellent advice immediately, so I put a call through to No.10. I'm put through to Rishmeister's Rottweiler, Charles Meredith Orff (known by everyone as C.M.Orff).

“Who's this?” says he.

“ Philf” I reply deferentially.

“Oh, god, not 'Cock up' Philf , who we've been trying to hide in the MoJ? What do you want?

I laugh a long with his little joke. Then deliver my riposte 'Ask not my country might do for me; ask what I might do for my country' (Thanks JFK). This seems to go right over his head (clearly he's a Generation Zer – they're all ignorant.

“ So tell me what want; what, you really, really, really, want? (for some reason question delivered in a high sing-song voice)

'I want to help the Rishmeister when the going get's tough. I want to get out there and defend the indefensible; to say the unsayable; to lay down my body if necessary... He cuts me off

“Allright, allright; let's cut to the chase; you want to be a Shit Shoveler so that you can get some of the lime-light,eh, eh?

“Yes, I suppose I do...

“Ok' I'll put you on the waiting list... Don't call us...” He hangs up.

Next time: Rish calls Philf into deal with 'a spot of bother' up North

 

THE STOOL AND THE ART OF EFFLUENT MAINTENANCE

 

YET ANOTHER MODEST PROPOSAL

(Again thanks to Rev. Jonathan Swift)

THE STOOL AND THE ART OF EFFLUENT MAINTENANCE

The humble stool, little considered, but yet a constant in our lives – often after waking and before breakfast.

Once evacuated, we give little or no thought to its onward journey, even though it is a journey that has a singular impact on our environment and adversely affects activities, which are apparently health sustaining; although, to my mind, wild/cold water swimming seems a particularly unattractive activity when, say, compared to relaxing in a temperature controlled bath.

 

Be that as it may, I once thought the health of the nation to be a priority for any government, but it seems that such cherished thinking is both naïve and without virtue.

“Why is this?” you might ask. Is it that governments are unwilling to challenge the eminence of the market or that governments are stuffed with self-serving hypocritical egoists who don’t give a shit for the welfare of others? At this point I must apologize for the use of an expletive in this sentence, although given the subject of this piece it does seem appropriate.

Accordingly and somewhat disconcertingly, the resolution of this situation must, once again fall to us, the ordinary citizenry. The strategy I propose is relatively simple and straightforward and merely requires the evacuation of the bowels once every two days. To achieve this objective, I have taken inspiration from the process of “laying out” after death.

One of the elements of “laying out” is the necessity to plug various orifices – you might guess which they might be – in order to avoid a messy after death. By the same token, I propose that all citizens follow this process on the days when evacuation is specifically forbidden; urination will not be subject to any time restriction. 

 

Plugs of various sizes will be available from all supermarkets at government subsidized prices – if they can get their collective fingers out, not a pretty thought – and whilst size is important, you may still experience a mild level of discomfort. However, you might console yourself with the thought that you are part of a cohort determined to protect the world from becoming over stooled.

In the context of self-control, I must address the issue of, as the Bible so delicately puts it, the emission of wind from the anus. In this event, you will have permission to remove your plug but only for the purpose of farting and only for so long as it takes to complete the fart, at which point the plug must be re-inserted.

As stated previously, some discomfort cannot be avoided, as subsequent facial expressions will indicate. To assist in dealing with this issue, might I suggest you might want to follow the example of David Suchet in his role as Hercule Poirot, and clench your buttocks together as you walk. It may feel strange, but the spectacle of everybody walking in a mincing manner will give cause to some hilarity and distract from the discomfort.

 

No strategy for change is without it’s downside and this is no different. There will be increased absenteeism from work, productivity will fall and accidents will happen as demonstrated by the phrase “Oh shit” resounding throughout the nation.

This strategy is designed to reduce effluent flowing into our rivers and seas. The cost to the individual’s dignity and that of the nation will be high and will impact on our standing in the world, not that our standing in the world is any great shakes; not since Brexit anyway, but that’s another story

Perhaps the cost to our individual and collective dignity will be worth the price. But I earnestly beseech the government to throw off their laissez-faire attitude, take responsibility, before they too are plugged.

...And Quietly Flows The Pong...

 

Chris Philph -  Diary of a Nobody's Nobody

for My Darling Betty-poo (why does she dislike this pet name?)

March 1st:

 It's been exactly 485 days, 12 hours since my star shot across the Downing Street firmament only to disappear into the Trussosphere along with Mme Lettuce herself. Not a day goes past without me re-running that day when I heroically spoke 'Truth to Power', telling La Trussler that on principle I had to resign from her cabinet (as per Betty-Poo's advice).

“I'm taking you down with me, Philth she said “ and the Quasi-man's toast too.” I must say it was one of the few promises Ms.Trustt actually kept.

But let me take you back Dear Diary to those heady days when I was speeding my way towards becoming Chancer of the Exchequer.. It all started with a phone call from Quasi. (Wotta Man – brain as big as a billiard ball) “Philth he said “straight to the point I want you as my Chief Sec.You've got exactly the qualifications and experience we need - Liquidation, Insolvency, £4 million debts – you've done it all, my boy. “ (Wotta man; brain as big as a turnip) “ You may think it a bit presumptious of me”, says he “ but I have brought a welcome pack with me, in case you do Me and 'Er next door' the honour of accepting.” He produces copies of Economics for Dummies: Dark Dealings with the Blob; Brittany (Spears)Unchained and How to be an Attack Dog in 5 Easy Lessons. “ I suggest you start mugging up on '...Dummies' in case you have to stand in for the Lettuce or me on Newsnight, Kornberger or Pesto.”

To say I took to Chief Sec like a shareholder takes to Thames Water, is no exaggeration. I was wanted everywhere. Quasi heaped praise on me, congratulating me on my strategy of making Pesto look as if he knew more about economics than me. “ A masterly double-bluff, Philth,” says he “ by giving the impression that we dont know what we're doing, you hide the fact that we actually don't know what we're doing.”(Wotta Man, brain as big as a pumpkin).

A couple of weeks later everything goes tits up! Quasi barges in on me doing the Sun Crossword with my Super-Spad.. Quazz is in a lather shouting“She's going to sack me; the stupid B****; ME with a brain as big as a space-hopper;ME who wrote the mini-budget in Ancient Greek (in rhyming couplets). And you, Philth, have lost your 'Useful Idiot' status; so you're out on your ear too. My advice is get your resignation in first”

The rest, of course, is history. The Trussmeister flails about for a few days before she is given her marching orders by 'The Grim Reaper of the 1922 Committee, Sir Graham Baddy. La Trusst last seen exiting by the back door of no.10 and hot-footing it back to Suffolk with a handbag full of 'govt issue' biros, notepads and paperclips. Goodbye Ms Lettuce; Hello Dishi Rishi; Goodbye Barbie; Hello Ken!

But what of ME? I hear my readers enquire. Smarmy Sunak says he would love to have me back in the Treasury but I failed the 'spreadsheet' test. So I am packed off to the laager of the Ministry of Justice – like Napoleon in my Elba.

So here I am Minister for Crime, Police and Fire. It's just awful. If it's not bad enough that the Met Chief introduces me at meetings as 'Philth in charge of the Filth' my boss, Charlie Chalk (well-meaning but seriously serious) keeps popping his head round the door and telling me what I can and can't say e.g Don't mention that your less likely to be a victim of crime in London than outside the Metropolis; do say' knife crime is up in Sadiq's fiefdom' C'mon Chalkie, KC do you take the Right Honourable C. Philth for some kind of amateur?!!

March 2

Close up and personal with Lizzie-poo (It's been a while!). Showed her above entry. She tells me not to be such a Wuss; stop whingeing and get on the blower to Nadine Zimbabwe as he knows how to climb the greasy pole without talent or brains. “He owes you.” She says, as indeed he does. My selfless attempts to bale him out over his 'careless but not deliberate' (Ha! Ha!) failure to pay HMRC was the main factor in my brilliant career taking a nose dive.

Later Telephone call to Nadine. I had the phone tap on. (MI6 surplus bought on E-bay) It went like this:

“Is that you Philth? What do you want? I don't like to be disturbed when I'm at my stables fettling the fillies”

“Nad, (we're on Nad, Philth terms, of course) do you remember when there was all that HMRC nonsense a couple of Summer's ago, which I nearly sorted. You said I could always call on you for help as one good turn deserves another?”

“No. 'fraid I don't remember. Did I have a spot of bother? I'm sure you're mistaken. Anyway you had better go on.”

“Well, long story short. I got booted out of Cabinet by The Yorkshire Maharajah and my career has stalled ever since. I thought you might be able to advise me on how to re-ascend the greasy Cockaigne pole again.

“You insinuating that I am a member of the Grand Order of the Brown Nose and I might impart some tips on how you might enter the Order?”

“No, no , that's not what I meant, Nad, My Hero...”

“Oh don't worry yourself you young Whippersnapper; you couldn't pay me a greater compliment...”

to be continued...

 

NEXT TIME NADINE REVEALS HOW PHILPH CAN GET BACK IN THE GAME; CLIMB THE POLE AND,WHO KNOWS, EVEN REACH THE TOP.

^.