The Cautionary Tale of Albert Nightswerve, the Widget King.

My balneal yeomen, many apologies if you are waiting for Part 43 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”, but those of you who have been following this blog may have realised that I discovered my battered soapbox while I was dry-cleaning my llama. It brought back good memories and I have decided to give it a bit of an airing over my ideas of ethical taxation in business.

I have already drawn your attention to my ideas over how voluntary corporate taxation could be used to encourage the best ethical practice in business. Indeed, I have already entered the idea on the UK Government’s Freedom site here as well as providing a copy on my Blogspot site, here.

Today, I am hoping to convince more people of the benefits of this idea by relating the cautionary tale of Albert Nathaniel Nightswerve, the Widget King. It is in the hope I can persuade more people to go to the Freedom site, comment and give the idea a high score. If I can, who knows, maybe a politician will take notice and I will get the chance to explain the idea in more detail within the corridors of power.

Albert Nightswerve was the second son of Nathaniel Nightswerve, the brewing and embrocation magnate. While away at University, Albert had a wonderful idea about how to produce a better widget. Funded, by his father, he opened Acme Super Widget Ltd in a small allotment shed in deepest Northamptonshire.

The Albert Nightswerve widget wasn’t exactly an overnight success. Albert spent many hours tinkering with his widget. Eventually, the hard work started to pay off and the orders started to trickle in.

The entrepreneurial Albert took the opportunity andmoved his operation to a lock-up garage behind the gas works, a few hundred yards from his allotment.

It was with good reason that Albert became known as the Widget King. Albert was a man of principle and strong character. Despite the various trials and tribulations he faced, he vowed that Acme Super Widget Ltd would operate ethically and responsibly. That his company would not only bring the world the best widget possible, but he would make sure that it did it in a way that stayed true to his high ethical principles.

He vowed that he would treat his employees as people, not as payroll numbers and that he would never lay anybody off who wasn’t prepared to leave. When the company moved to a state of the art factory complex, he made sure that there was a crèche, a medical centre and a social club. The company operated a good pension scheme, offered good salaries and generous paid holiday. Albert wanted to make sure that his employees were rewarded for their efforts and loyalty.

The cost of the new factory was inflated a little by Albert’s insistence that it be energy efficient and that it include a recycling unit that would allow old widgets, even those from other manufacturers, to be recycled and pollution avoided.

In his quest for the perfect widget, Albert invested in research and development, new plant and encouraged innovation.

The suppliers were also in Albert’s mind. All bills were paid promptly, even though this meant having to have a few extra staff in his accounts department. On occasions, he even paid in advance when he knew a good supplier was experiencing cashflow issues.

Acme Super Widget Ltd also made sure that it put something back to the community by making sure that a proportion of profits went to local charities and that staff were encouraged to participate in local schools and voluntary groups, even if this meant giving them a few extra hours paid leave.

As the company grew, Albert was rightly proud of his achievements. On the day that the company became Acme Super Widgets Plc, he took all his staff and suppliers out on a free picnic.

Then along came Joseph T. Bloggs.

Bloggs Corp had been watching the widget market and realised there was a commercial opportunity. They designed their own widget. Taking advantage of EU and government grants and by borrowing from the banks, they set up a factory in a development area to produce it. Employing a slick salesforce supported by a massive advertising campaign they entered the market.

There was little difference in the Widgets so it became a good old corporate set to.

Apart from the salesmen, Bloggs paid the lowest wages it could to its staff. It didn’t give a pension or healthcare. Terms and conditions were determined by the statutory minimum. Wherever they could they used agency staff rather than employees.

Bloggs didn’t bother to recycle old widgets or get involved in community projects. Payments to suppliers were done on their terms, often 50 or 60 days after the invoice date. They renegotiated terms regularly, every time exerting pressure on suppliers to reduce prices or adding fees and penalty clauses.

Faced with all of this, Albert worked even harder and Acme Super Widgets did manage to compete, mainly because Bloggs Corp had to service a large debt.

Yet, when it came to the profit figures, Bloggs Corp were better. They had a bigger profit. Their share price was higher, their shareholders gauging success purely on profit.

Then one day, Joseph T. Bloggs used that share price to his advantage and launched a hostile takeover offering Bloggs Corp stock for Acme Super Widgets stock. He cited his efficient ways of working and promised to introduce his efficient business practices into Acme.

Albert died the day after Bloggs Corp closed his factory. The entire town came to a halt as his funeral cortege moved slowly through packed streets. His passing was mourned by his now unemployed workers. Suppliers came from miles to pay their respects.

The state of the art factory was shipped to Eastern Europe piece by piece to be re-assembled and staffed by even lower paid workers. Eventually Bloggs Corp closed their other UK factory and transferred all production there. The UK based suppliers found they had lost all widget custom as that too moved abroad.

There’s nothing left of the Acme Super Widget factory now. It was sold off for executive housing to repay some of the Bloggs Corp debt.

The UK widget industry, once the best in the world is no more.

The annoying thing is, that it all could have been avoided. Having an innovative ethical based corporate tax system would have meant that Albert’s principles would have been rewarded and his profits and share price improved. His ethical principles would have been rewarded by money off his tax bill. The higher profits would have meant a higher share price, thus avoiding the takeover.

So, my grieving yeomen, listen to this cautionary tale and think hard. I hope I’ve convinced you that ethical taxation that rewards men of principle and vision like Albert Nightswerve, the late and deeply mourned Widget King. Good corporate ethics makes a huge difference to peoples’ lives.

If I have convinced you, then please take time to visit the Freedom site, vote and comment. Who knows, you could be giving Albert a long lasting and fitting memorial.

It is times like these that I wish I still had that scratchy label in my underpants and could get this message out to more people. No longer having the tag of ‘most interesting’ that brings the curious to my ramblings, I rely on you to make mention of this blog in your own and spread the word. Make sure that principled entrepreneurs like Albert are rewarded.

Thank you for your time and your patience.

I Survived Mutant Rodents

Having survived the weekend which, in part at least, required my to evict a mouse from the garage, I find myself able to bring you Part Ten of the provisionally titled ‘Horace Adkins Saga’. Those of you who doubt the courage required to bring you this need to know that the mouse was the size of a small cat, had teeth resembling steak knives and appeared to be growing wings. I have put these mice mutations down to its diet of cat litter (best not to ask!).

After my epic battles with supersized rodents, I find it particularly boring to remind you that in order to get the best from any serial, you should start at the beginning which I decided on a whim to name as Part One.

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Horace Adkins, the beloved and renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario is presumed dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. In the mortuary, there is the body of a swimmer who drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The safety of the streets of London is threatened by the illegal importing of cheap Macramé yarn.

Inspector Jones is convinced that all of these are somehow linked to Horace Adkins.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit. Not only does he discover that McRamie has been abducted, but that all records relating to the case have vanished. Not only that, but he and his sidekick Smithy have no recollection of their previous visit.

Jones is convinced that the ‘John Doe’ in the Thames was murdered by Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling, an employee of the Horace Adkins. Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

At every turn, the Inspector is finding the world is turning odd. He suddenly finds himself married to Pippa Hucknell, the investigative journalist whose stories are upsetting his Superintendant. His car is now a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry that behaves like a puppy. Since the case has started, he has suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions, grown a moustache that has turned out ginger, bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships, had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks, had one of his team hospitalised by feral Girl Guides and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr.

Now read on...

Inspector Jones went straight through to the kitchen and laid out the ingredients for dinner. He stepped back, observed them for a while, and then adjusted them for best aesthetic effect. He issued a stream of oaths as he rummaged in drawers and cupboards to find all the utensils.

With everything in place, he went to the fridge only to find that it contained cans of diet soda rather than beer. He swore before stomping off to his study to retrieve a can of lager from the small fridge next to his desk.

He was almost at the door when he froze. He examined the can of ‘Adkin’s Premium Dutch Export’ in his hand, shook his head slowly before returning to the desk and picking up a framed picture of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and carrying both back to the kitchen.

Sir Arthur carefully positioned, Jones started meticulously preparing the evening meal, all the time holding a one-sided conversation with the picture about the nature of madness.

Pippa still wasn’t home when the preparations were complete, so Jones went and sat in the front room with his copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little after Two-thirty’.

The mournful baying of a llama interrupted Jones about an hour later. He looked out of the window to see Pippa spilling out of a llama hackney carriage then swaying alarmingly as she paid the driver.

Hiding the book under a cushion embroidered with the image of Winston Churchill, Jones went to the kitchen to complete the dinner. Pippa staggered in a few minutes later.

“I’m drunk!” she announced to make sure there was no doubt.

Jones looked at her and raised an eyebrow before returning to his pans.

“You are a very naughty boy.” She gave the Inspectors bottom a playful slap. “You didn’t tell me that Archie was involved in all of this Horace Adkins business.”

Pippa belched noisily and then fished around in her handbag before triumphantly holding a new paperback edition of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little after Two-thirty’ aloft.

“Do you know Archie McRamie?” Jones carefully kept his tone steady.

“Of course!” Pippa waved the picture on the back of the paperback towards Jones. “Everyone in the media knows Archie. You can always get a witty quote about anything from Archie. Olympic standard sack racer; best kept allotment winner for six years running; wine expert; panel game whiz; current holder of the lawnmower land speed record; judge for the Light Entertainment Championships and... and above all, absolutely fantastic in bed!”

“What?” Jones spun round to face Pippa

“No need to be jealous, darling.” Pippa steadied herself against the counter. “I haven’t had the pleasure, I can only base it on the gossip. Besides, I’m not his type. He likes his women a little more... demure.”

Pippa laughed hysterically and Jones caught her as she nearly fell.

“Not that.” Jones guided Pippa to a stool. “You said he’s a judge for the upcoming Light Entertainment Championships!”

“Yes and you know what else?” Pippa’s brow furrowed as she focussed on Jones. “He can write too. This book of his isn’t half bad. OK, the world he describes is very dark and not a lot of fun, but it is a gripping read. I bet Horace Adkins was really peed off to be cast as a smuggler and an industrial spy.”

Over dinner, Jones sat quietly while Pippa recounted tales of the achievements of Archie McRamie. It appeared that he had done everything from climb Mount Everest to breaking records for solving crosswords blindfolded. The scale of the anecdotes increased with the amount of wine Pippa imbibed.

After dinner was eaten and cleared, Jones sat on the sofa with Pippa lying across his lap. They both read ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’.

“Glynn, can I ask you an odd question.” Pippa asked slowly

Inspector Glynn Jones stiffened as he realised that for the first time since all of this started somebody had addressed him by his given name.

“It’s just this.” Pippa squirmed delightfully in Jones’s lap. “Do you ever get the feeling that you are in a dream and that something is stopping you from waking up?”

Glynn Jones looked down at Pippa, but before he could formulate a response, Pippa suddenly lurched from his lap, rushed to the bathroom and was violently sick.

Somebody said they wanted to see me reading one of my stories.

So, here I am, reading one of my stories. Please be careful what you wish for.

Much Ado About Pansies

It is possible that some of you may have been on expedition to the wilds of Manchester studying aboriginal termites. With your access to to civilisation, the internet, my blog and modern plumbing limited, you may not have realised that the Oundle Festival of Literature is going on.

For the Festival, there was a competition to write a piece for a Shakespeare event loosely based on 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' or 'The Tempest'. I produced a piece based on a joke I saw on Judy's site. The links to anything remotely like Shakespeare were tenuous in the extreme. However, for reasons best known to the judges, they selected it to be performed.

I did promise that I would share the piece after the event had been completed. So, for those of you with any interest, please read on...

Much Ado about Pansies.

Lizzie and I were in the Rose and Thistle discussing our Greek holiday plans when, like the anti-hero from that Carly Simon song, ‘he’ walked in. Lizzie stopped talking mid-sentence, pupils dilating as she checked him out checking his immaculately tousled hair in the mirror.

He moved like a dancer across the room. A tight, white, T-shirt emphasised his tan and his muscular torso. The even tighter trousers causing Lizzie’s mouth to drop open – although his assets had surely been bolstered by a strategically placed sock. As he joined a crowded table, I knew that there would be no further discussions of sun kissed Greek beeches that night. Lizzie was a girl on a mission.

I’d been here before. Lizzie has the physical assets allowing her for one night to have almost any man she wants while I am usually left with his mate who can make one night feel like half a lifetime.

I watched as she sashayed to the ladies toilet. While nearly every man in the pub dribbled their beer, he remained stubbornly aloof. Half an hour later, she tried the predatory sashay with stumble and apologetic fumbling to remove spilt beer. That didn’t work either.

I mocked her efforts and told her she didn’t have a chance. Lizzie glared at me.

“I have £10 that says you can’t do any better!” She snapped.

Although I don’t have her love of bedroom gymnastics, she knew that I couldn’t resist a bet.

Over the next few weeks, I discovered his name, Patrick and that he worked in the same building as Lizzie and I. It didn’t take long to discover his routine and engineer meetings in the lift and the coffee shop. I even took to going for walks in the park where he went jogging at lunchtime, but my softly, softly approach drew the same blanks as Lizzie and her headlong assaults.

By the time we went on holiday, it looked as if neither of us would win that £10.
Once in Greece, Lizzie soon forgot about Patrick. Her attentions soon fell on an olive skinned tour guide who was more susceptible to her charms.

Unfortunately, this meant we had to sign up for all of his tours.

I can only get excited about old ruins for so long. On yet another trek through the remains of some ancient temple, I reached my limits. While the tour group bore the brunt of the sun, I took myself off into a wood, sitting on a log where I could watch the coach and sip at my bottle of water.

Suddenly I became aware that I wasn’t alone. This strange looking Greek guy was sat next to me. I tried to ignore him, but he was persistent. He thrust a bag of flowers in my hand. The bag was of the finest lace with this fantastic spider’s web design. He called them ‘Love in Idleness’, but anyone could see they were just pansies. He made the most ludicrous claims for them. I firmly and politely declined, but when I turned to hand them back, he was gone. I looked around for him but it was as if he had become invisible, so I just dropped the flowers in their pretty lace pouch into my handbag.

When we returned from holiday, Lizzie seemed to have lost interest in our little bet, but I wasn’t going to give in.

A week or so later I was walking in the park and I came across Patrick, dozing on a bench in the sunshine and I remembered the flowers. I didn’t believe the strange Greek guy’s claims for a moment, but hey, it was worth a shot. I took the flowers in the bag and squeezed them so the juice dripped onto his eyelids.

Patrick stirred and woke. He looked straight at me and he looked at me like no man ever has. He asked me to sit with him, but I rushed away, shouting over my shoulder that I would be in the Rose and Thistle on Friday night and that he should meet me there and give me his best line.

On the Friday, Patrick walked in to the Rose and Thistle and checked himself in the mirror. Lizzie nudged me, but I had already spotted him. He looked around the bar, spotted us at the table and walked over with a slow bounce in his step. He was wearing his tightest trousers and it looked like he’d stuffed them with an extra sock.

Lizzie was beside herself, nudging me and whispering ‘He’s coming over! He’s coming over!” His dark eyes were fixed on me. I tried to stay calm and nonchalant by sipping at my vodka and Red Bull. Reaching our table, Patrick leaned down and looked deep into my soul.

Patrick paused for effect before purring “For £20, I will do anything you want.”

I looked at Lizzie. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was moving, but no words spilled out. Victory was mine!

I savoured the moment by memorising the sight of a totally flummoxed Lizzie and the amazing puce colour she was turning. Smiling, I reached into my purse and withdrew a crisp £20 note.

I took Patrick’s hand and slowly, seductively pressed the note into it.

“Patrick, you have made my night. Now...” I paused and licked my lips with the tip of my tongue “clean my flat."

...ooo000ooo...

I can only hope you feel it was worth the wait.