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Improbable legend tells of one who shall step from amongst the throng and set the masses free - a godlike figure of heroic proportions.
The long fetid days of the past weeks lay heavily over the oppressed populace of 392. A sullen heat undisturbed by mere mortal issued forth from the portal known as the Burnham Training Room. Staff sat in sullen torpor hunched dreamily over their keyboards, mesmerised by huge 21 inch screens displaying bizarre and magical instructions to them, weaving mystical patterns related to long forgotten arts such as GCD and GLIMS. The corridors of what was once power were sparsely populated with plodding somnambulists. Could this cess pool of iniquities possibly be the breeding ground for Someone that would step forth? Or is that fifth?
A garbled murmur spread amongst the dazed workers - a rumour that He had indeed inched forward to be recognised - the One with the torso hewn from Viking longboats, flaxen locks streaming freely in a wind of change and a mind as sharp as a really sharp thing. A tingle of excitement, or was it menthol, flickered on everyone’s lips. The smell of lightning, the taste of the unknown, the sound of revolt - what does any of that have to do with anything?
The murmur took form, spirit shapes flitted from huddled gathering to pitiful group carrying a name for salvation - a name to lift their downtrodden souls above the tormented drudgery of their everyday routine. But these were not the spirits of graceful swallows heralding a new season, but a nose - a red nose bumbling clumsily amongst the populace, and the name it was dribbling from it’s orifice - Jolliffe. Jolliffe - what sort of name is this they asked, surely a mistake, misheard in the long telling and retelling?
Excitement stirred in their breasts as they sought out He who would free them, he who would surely lift the burden that so encumbered their souls. A glimpse here, a snatched sighting there. Yes that is Him, where, there - There - THERE! An element of doubt creeps in - an uneasy murmur - what of the torso hewn from Viking longboats, flaxen locks streaming freely in a wind of change and a mind as sharp as a really sharp thing?
But as surely as toast falls buttered
side down onto your favourite silk chemise at the moment the doorbell goes
for the chauffeured limousine to whisk you off to the side of your favoured
lover via Concorde, a challenger stepped up to seize the proffered gauntlet.
And the One known as Jolliffe found himself face to face with - his tormentor,
the dark force behind his every waking moment, his Master.
And so the challenge wrought of
iron wills was born. Who would reign supreme? Who would snatch victory
and carry aloft the noble banner of Charity. The contest was born of steely
men who gird their loins with - well with Marks and Spencer’s best cotton.
A course was set, minions prepared the way, Going Loopy around 392 was
underway.
Aha! Wait, there from the misty darkened doorway rumoured to lead to the fabled land of Paris (mentioned only in hushed whispers), strides a bold third challenger. Surely here is a half-man half-more-of-a man that can vanquish all but the unvanquishable. With a sure step, a bright star to guide him and an assured craziness that can only be achieved by being born French, he too steps up to face the final thing that people face when it’s really, really final. Ahh, ze Frensh, we ‘ave ze honorr, you poor Inglish, he murmurs.
Hold fast! Who is this who lurks in the shadows? Fellow spirits push him forward into the unaccustomed light of day, startling him. Blinking back the harsh light, he stumbles briefly, an unlikely warrior, but bearing the hopes of the low of the low - the DBAs. Fear and repulsion surround him, crowds part at the merest hint of his odour. The plebiscite murmer their disapproval - how dare he show his face during the light of day - mothers shield their tender young from the hideousness of his being.
And what of sustenance, I hear you cry. Surely (and stop calling me Shirley), such an endeavour of the body cannot be lightly undertaken. Let them eat cake! Comes the bold reply. Provisions mounded on provisions were heaped in preparation for what would surely be an honourable feast, whatever the outcome. Wenches and scullery maids laboured for, well - moments - in the making (and unwrapping) of the finest of fine things to set forth on a table befitting such a hero.
Let the flags wave cheerily in the afternoon breeze, Let the plebiscite roar for their favoured hero, Let that short girl at the back through to the front so that she can see, Let the contest begin…