THE GUARANTEE

The following is a transcript of what I told the banking inquiry about the part Fugger played in the events leading to the blanket guarantee.

'Why did we guarantee the banks? Well that's quite a question. A fierce question altogether it must be said. Absolutely fierce hard to answer, but I'll give it a go and I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not going to make up some guff and pepper it with all the lingo like liquidity and all that. No. I'll be straight with you. I'll tell you the truth. The truth of it is that it's a mystery. A pure mystery. It's like a strange event. Life is full of strange and mysterious events isn't it? It is. And this is one of those events. Very much so. Very strange and mysterious. Fortean in nature, I'd even say. Truth is, we're not sure why we did it. It just kind of happened and to be honest we barely talk about it anymore. It upsets us. It was an extraordinary experience y'see and not in a good way. Not in a good way at all. It's like this, imagine if you and a few of your pals were on the way home from the pub one night, a night like any other night, or so you'd be thinking, but then a spaceship kind of thing appears and you get zapped up into it and there's aliens in there and they start sticking things up your hole for a bit and then they drop you back. Well, the whole guarantee thing was a bit like that. If aliens grabbed you off the road and started sticking mad science fiction objects up your arse you wouldn't talk about it would you? I mean, you'd be upset about it. You'd be kind of ashamed of it maybe and you might even wonder if it even happened. Well, that's what it was like for us, y'know. When I look back on that time, I usually can't really remember what happened at all. All that comes to mind is a beady eyed little monster fella sticking a mad yoke up my hole and that's my answer for you. That's what I have to say. We guaranteed the banks because it was like an alien putting something up your arse and it was very confusing and distressing and I don't want to talk about it anymore. So, we'll leave it there if that's alright with youse.

Now, tell me, can a fella charge for expenses showing up at this thing?'

The End (of Irelend).

MEDIOCRITA RULES OK!

You're probably not aware of Mediocrita. It's a little nation bordering a few other nations and nothing much happens there. It's never been invaded or anything. It has no raw materials to covet. It is of no strategic value. Its indigenous population has never left and no one has ever arrived, at least not for long. A few Vikings showed up at one stage but they got bored and split after about fifteen minutes. The people there are pleasant enough but a bit dull. They never really developed any kind of unique culture so when the odd anthropologist does drop by they soon give up on the hope of forming a decent thesis and leave.

The citizens of Mediocrita are proud enough of their unremarkable nation. They find its unremarkability the very thing that makes it remarkable. Nothing making the place unique is what makes the place unique. Mediocritans are a people who value stasis. They are an unambitious and sedentary crowd who do not seek adventure and so never leave their shores. The people of Mediocrita never have anything good to say about each other but they never have anything bad to say about each other either. They think each other are OK and they are united in their OKness.

Mediocrita has a national anthem, the only piece of art of any sort that has ever originated on this land. It goes like this:

It's OK here.

Yes it's OK here.

Nothing really bad happens,

Year after year.

It's OK here.

Yes it's OK here.

There's much worse places,

Or so we hear.

So it's OK here.

Yes it's OK here.

And on the weekends

We might go for a beer.

Coz it's OK here.

Yes it's OK here.

We have no volcanos or mad animals or that

So there's not much to fear.

Sure it's OK here.

Yes it's OK here.

There's not much laughter

but there's rarely a tear.

Coz it's OK here.

Yes it's OK here.

So if you want an OK time

You'll be OK here.

(It is at this point that the anthem ends and the Mediocritans fire their cannon. They have a cannon for defence but they never need it for that reason so it is only put to ceremonial use. Sometimes it doesn't work. No one complains when it doesn't go off. They just shrug.)

What no one knows about Mediocrita is that it has a secret. A big terrible secret. A secret I'm about to share with you now. In the mid-nineteen seventies a spacecraft arrived bearing an extraterrestrial ambassador carrying a message of Universal peace and a cure to all known ills. The citizens of Mediocrita were a bit put out. The status quo that provided them with their valued cultural identity was obviously under threat. New standards would be set by this saviour from outer space and everyone would be expected to up their game. Worse still, it was considered that if the little green man was to make Mediocrita his base then that would attract global attention to the Mediocritan homeland and they'd have loads of visitors and have to be making heaps of sandwiches and that. So, after some modest debate, the citizens of Mediocrita decided to bash the alien in the head with a rock, place his body back on his craft, set the craft on fire, and never speak of what took place again.

Indeed, no Mediocritan ever did mention what took place again. However, the memory of the incident sometimes does come into the heads of Mediocritans but they vanquish it by closing their eyes, clenching their fists into balls, and singing their national anthem to themselves – over and over. When the anniversary of the outer space visitor's arrival occurs no one says a word. They all just gather around the cannon and repeatedly fire the thing which seems to do the trick as long as the cannon works, which it sometimes doesn't but, you know, you can't have everything, so that's OK and you don't get much better than OK. Mediocrita rules OK!

TRAYS OF SANDWICHES

Trays of sandwiches, quartered diagonally. Wretched pyramids. Triangles of misery. That’s the cheese. That’s the chicken. That’s the ham. That’s the egg. That’s the ham and egg. Trays of sandwiches herald awkward formality. A gathering of unlikeminded souls. Trays of sandwiches are accompanied by strained conversation:

‘What route did you take here?’ Oh, was it busy? I saw a dog looking out a passenger seat window on that route once.’

(Silence)

‘Were there any dogs looking out passenger seat windows on your way here? Yes, well you sometimes see them. I could’ve sworn the one I saw was wearing sunglasses and had a cigarette dangling from its mouth. That may have been my mind playing tricks on me though. Does your mind play tricks on you at all? You really can’t be sure of anything can you? I mean, you just have to take things at face value but anything could be happening, you know, on a quantum level.’

(Profound silence)

‘. . .anyway, try the ham and egg, they’re nice.’

Trays of sandwiches are a bad omen. They mean bad things. They are produced at times of trauma. Someone gets very sick or badly injured and worried relatives gather around trays of sandwiches. You can tell who’s least worried because they are really tucking in. Or maybe they are the most worried. Trays of sandwiches accompany us throughout our lives. They are there at all the major junctures. Someone is born: tray of sandwiches. A couple get married: tray of sandwiches. Someone dies: tray of sandwiches. Vietnam: tray of sandwiches.

Trays of sandwiches remind us of the last time we saw a tray of sandwiches and if the last time we saw a tray of sandwiches was a bad time (and if a tray of sandwiches was involved it probably was) then our reaction to the tray of sandwiches can be dramatic. The sight of a tray of sandwiches often activates PTSD. When trays of sandwiches are produced, some of us transform into blubbering John Rambos recalling our own shoeshine box incidents:

‘I wanna go home! I wanna go home! He keeps calling my name! I wanna go home, Johnny! I wanna drive my Chevy! I said, with what? I can't find your fuckin' legs! I can't find your legs!’

Quite the faux pas.

I think gangsters shouldn’t leave horse heads in beds as a warning. Instead, I think they should bring a tray of sandwiches to their intended victim. That would be much scarier. Imagine, you’re sitting some place and all of a sudden some shady character comes over and sets down a tray of sandwiches in front of you. Jesus, the hair is standing up on the back of my neck just thinking about it.

If aliens ever come to Earth and we are preparing to greet them, I don’t think we should have trays of sandwiches involved. The aliens might react badly. They might have trays of sandwiches on their own planet and the negative feelings they associate with trays of sandwiches might make them aggressive. They might open fire with some awful weapon and the world will be destroyed. We’ll be left in an arid wasteland, gathered in the charred remnant of a dining room, comforting ourselves with trays of sandwiches. Making small talk over slices of stale fungal bread. Stiff, with rat meat in the middle.

Trays of sandwiches, quartered diagonally. Desolate Alps. Equilaterals of anguish. Try the ham and egg, they’re nice.

LITTLE SPACE MEN

Little space men took me away in their U.F.O. last night. No anal probing. Slightly disappointed.