Category Archives: Fiction

Readers will recall that previously Wilson had witnessed the rather mediaeval termination of Bentine’s employment by Brian Boru. He is now charged with the task of ‘writing it up’.

Part the Second – In which our hero is concerned with advice and consent.

Back in his office, Wilson decided that a visit to The Holograms was required. Blinds down and lights off, a reproving Cyrano de Bergerac was the first to appear.

A wasted opportunity, young sirrah, to have impressed your perspicacity and wit upon that roseate ruffian, Boru. You may have offered: Sports commentary – Bentine was a man of two halves; Philosophical – He always believed that the whole was more than the sum of the parts; Portraiture; Odd how the left and right profile look quite different; Political – This one’s too close to call, split right down the middle; Riddle – How many Bentines make one? Macabre – His favourite ale was a half and half; Proverbial – Two heads are better than one; Rueful – He always said not to do things by halves.

Wilson did not feel that any of this was helpful and –  avoiding staring at the great swordsman’s proboscis – ushered him away.

Then in quick succession came Ry Cooder singing ‘Slap Dab in the Middle’, Paul McCartney warbling ‘I’m not half the man I used to be…‘ and an excerpt from Brian De Palma’s ‘Body Double’. But eventually Wilson got lucky when Niccolo Machiavelli turned up and together they produced a statement that concluded; Michael gave his all to the Company and often did the work of two men. But following the re-structure, he just fell apart and had to split. Wilson thanked the wily Italian for his help and watched him fade into the ether before sending off the draft to ‘BB’, as he now termed Brian Boru.

Up, up in the glowering sky, the executive pagoda was teeming with prematurely-waistcoated directors, their pneumatic assistants and an assortment of journalists – easily distinguished by their ever-present intravenous alcohol drips and plastified bibs – all gathered to celebrate the latest Company triumph. As was the custom on such occasions, captives from the victory were serving their captors with petite fours and champagne.

The atmosphere was particularly jubilant tonight as Matthew & Son had long been an obstacle to the far-reaching ambition of Rolling Fork Traders. Now, old Matthew himself grimaced as he offered to refill the crystal flute of Sir Basil Basilisk, Principal Person and founder of RFT.

Mmm. Thank you Matthew. This profile please! he barked to the press photographers as he turned half-left and raised his glass. From his position by the balcony, Wilson kept an eye on proceedings as he skimmed the press release. RFT  had acquired, amongst other things, The Financial Times, Playboy and The Beano. Tomorrow would herald the first edition of a new organ that combined all three into a daily glossy tabloid known as Money, Honey and Funnies. Sir Basil had written the leader himself and now saw a brilliant headline opportunity in the crumpled person of old Matthew. Beckoning the reporters, he tapped his champagne flute, called for silence and then – when the room fell silent –  he threw his arm around the old man and drew him close.

Stay tuned to this channel for the further misadventures of Wilson in Wonderland.

Part The First –  in which our hero is discomfited and comforted.

What’s he doing here?   Who?   Him. The big guy with the red hair and the attitude.   That’s Brian Boru, the new HR Manager.   Why would we need an Irish warlord as our new HR Manager? What happened to George?   Mister Orwell was transferred to our Spanish office yesterday.   We usually have a morning tea when people leave.   No time. In any event there were certain…mmm… irregularities discovered and it was best that things…mmm…..   were progressed without embarrassment for anyone?   Exactly.   Thanks Burt. Isn’t that your trapeze?   It’s Mister Lancaster, Wilson – and yes, it is. See you later.     

With that, he swung gracefully across the room, performing a perfect triple – yes triple – somersault before landing front and centre in his ergonomically correct, executive leather chair. With his phone ringing, assistants scurrying and board papers neatly arranged, Burt’s aura seemed to reflect the success of the Company’s drive to rehabilitate impoverished circus artistes. Indeed, Burt was the exemplar of confident ignorance, the very nonpareil of the glittering ineptitude that symbolised the spirit of the new corporate adventurism that had been the brainchild of the erstwhile Mister Orwell. And Wilson envied him.

He envied him his well-filled, sequined tights. He coveted his easy charm, flashing smile and ability to strip down and re-assemble a Thompson machine gun whilst blindfolded. What he most envied though, was his sexual ambivalence. Burt wasn’t just a metro sexual, he was truly androgynous. He is favoured by the Gods, Wilson thought.

Rosa Klebb, the HR guardian, interrupted his ponderings with a violent kick to his shins.

Vat do you vant?   George – Mister Orwell was meant to do my personal assessment this morning.   King Brian vill be doing zet now. Ve vill send you a new appointment but you should familiarise yourself vizz ze protocols first. Kings heff different expectations from left-wing scribblers.

This judgement was accompanied by the sort of triumphant sneer that was the product of survival. Rosa had survived all of the management purges, partnership buy-outs and visioning exercises of the Company’s turbulent past through her ability to always choose the right side. For this reason, Wilson thought of her as Madame Rosa, Clairvoyant. And now, looking around the HR suite, he saw her hand in the decorations; The purple drapes; celtic water fountain and heraldic devices – all of these tastefully augmented by the sprightly rhythms of The Chieftains, lilting and keening through the PA.

Wilson’s reverie was interrupted by the frenetic arrival of his colleague, Bentine. What gives Mike? You have the appearance of a broken windmill.   It is an ignoble attempt to ingratiate myself to our new masters… a jig to honour our new capo de regime.  Ah. For a moment there I thought maybe Pavlov in Research had pressed your button again. Bentine coloured up around the neck and giggled in a way suggestive of both hiccoughs and emphysema – but he continued to jig.   Well, I’m supposed to be here for a meeting with HR and the Union rep about these allegations of Glen Glenda’s.   Christ, Mike. Tell them the truth. Tell them you’re impotent and no threat to anyone!  But Bentine had stopped in mid-gyration, arms folded in front of his chest, mouth gaping open.

At that very moment, Brian Boru re-emerged from his office, cheeks florid, eyes vengeful as he strode toward Bentine – the tassels on his kilt bouncing like a porn star’s gonads. Bentine was gobsmacked at the appearance of the on-rushing Boru who seemed to him to resemble nothing so much as an angry, ginger haystack. He had little time to reflect further however, as in very short order there were two of him, Boru’s flashing broadsword having cleaved him in twain with one blow.

Rosa Klebb was the first to break the rather awkward silence. I’ll cancel the Union then? She ventured. Aye, Boru responded – and turning to Wilson –You can make yourself useful too. Clean this up and then I want a position paper, explaining it, on my desk by 3. No more than two sides of A4, double spacing and a brief executive summary. Confidential – yes? Let’s see if you strategy people can earn your keep.

Wilson nodded crisply and thought; With a brogue like that, I’d swallow razor blades if you asked. On the way back to his office, he smiled at the prospect of earning Boru’s gratitude and –  who knows? –  maybe being offered Bentine’s job.

Stay tuned to Wise Blood for the further strange adventures of Wilson in Wonderland.