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The Coup

A new short story.

To be denounced before eight in the morning interferes with the digestion. Gerald, unable to swallow his cereal, wondered what he’d done.

“Shame on you!” chanted the lone protester outside.

Much as Gerald searched his memory for past disgraces, nothing wicked came to mind. Disappointing, really: by one’s mid-forties, oughtn’t a man to be ashamed of something?

He strode the length of his townhouse, upstairs past the back terrace, across the living room, beyond the guest and master bedrooms, up to the top-floor study, which still smelled of paint three weeks after they’d moved in. At the window, he peeped down on the street.

The protester, a pudgy bearded man, stood there holding a sign that declared “Filthy Pig”, followed by three exclamation points. Gerald turned from the window, glancing at the attic clutter: the rolled-up Persian runners for which they’d not yet found the right floor space; an obsolete iMac that was hard to toss out; emptied suitcases and assorted leftovers of the recent move. What had he to be ashamed of?

After all, much of Gerald’s adult life had been devoted to charitable works. Eighty-three nonprofits entrusted him with a total of £1.6bn, which it was his duty to protect and increase at Wisset-Brown, the private bank whose charities department he directed.

There was something childlike (in the best way) about many in the charitable sector, he believed. They were optimists about humanity, which was a form of extremism in the sense that children were extremists – that is, endearingly so. Especially since this was so demonstrably not an era of empathy. Then again, which ever had been?

He returned to the window. Three more demonstrators had joined the bearded man, who raised a megaphone for a new chant, words of loathing that seeped into Gerald’s consciousness with utmost relief: this rally, he realised, was aimed at his neighbours.

When he’d first contemplated buying this house, Gerald had noticed on the adjacent property a rain-dirtied flag with an exotic yellow bird at its centre, marking the embassy of a nation he thereafter referred to as the Kingdom of Budgerigar – one of those tiny states he knew to be brutish and hot, but whose location on a map required two minutes to find.

He’d contemplated whether the act of residing beside a despicable regime raised moral questions, particularly for his partner, who was at the Foreign Office. But, as a friend had commented, if Britain were willing to accept diplomats from Budgerigar, surely Gerald should be broad-minded enough to live next to them in South Kensington. Plus, the house was extremely reasonable.

Thankfully, the Budgerigarian diplomats proved a genial bunch, particularly a chargé d’affaires called Ústaffa who invited them to dinner with the ambassador soon after their arrival. All the Budgerigarians at the meal were charming, articulate, cultured – and eager to play down media reports. Gerald’s only lingering complaint was that they put out their rubbish so much earlier than the council demanded, causing an awful stink, given that fish featured so highly in the national diet.

As he stood in his attic, the protest-chant outside took hold of him, an irritatingly catchy tune: “Go away/You fat goats/Or we choke you/By your throats.” The temptation was to lean out and remark that a throat was the only place one could choke a goat, wasn’t it? Though, to be fair, they needed a rhyme with “goats”, and he couldn’t think of a better one.

Gerald avoided eye contact with the demonstrators when he left for work that morning, biking off for Wisset-Brown. A satisfactory day ensued, including a luncheon with his fourth-largest charity, some of whose fund - raisers had been pushing for a shift to so-called ethical investments – that is, no oil companies, no big tobacco, no orang-utan abusers. Gerald cautioned that he had yet to encounter a socially responsible investment that performed long-term. You could set out with ideals and indeed should. But you could not achieve ideals with ideals.

The head of the charity was relieved – times were tough without taking a risk on their holdings. The financial crisis had led to a decline in giving and a rise in neediness; rampant inflation ate into their funds; the government had been threatening to cap how much the rich could write-off in donations. Not that donors gave for tax relief alone. Just that . . . Anyway, the existing investments would stand. As the luncheon concluded, the head of the charity made a few conscience-salving comments, remarking that Gerald had “forced our hand” and been “so hard-nosed, as ever”. Untrue and unfair.

Yes, money was a priority but that was his professional duty. And it was his private belief too. Money ensured comfort for those he loved: his partner, his nephews, his god-daughter. Their happiness could not be purchased but it could be rendered more probable in charming lodgings, with decent schooling, proper travel, exposure to aesthetics, varied cooking. So, no, money wasn’t the point – but it paid for the point. Cycling home, he proceeded down a chain of thoughts, worrying first that he was a horrible person, then if they ought to have lamb again, wishing there were a Waitrose nearby, and whose turn it was to cook tonight, his or Gerald’s? (It should be noted that Gerald and his partner enjoyed a contented domestic relationship, with one vexing feature: both men were named Gerald. Early on, this had been amusing. But soon, Gerald took to encouraging the other Gerald to change his name to Ivor, which – they agreed – was a pleasing alternative. However, Gerald insisted that Gerald should be the one to change. Each remained wilful, referring to the other as Ivor and refusing to surrender his own Geraldness.)

So it was that Gerald, director of charities at Wisset-Brown, bicycled home with thoughts of spring lamb, new potatoes and Rioja (did lamb go with Rioja?), and forgot about the morning protest till he arrived in his own square, finding the rally still noisily in force.

He cooked that night and Ivor, arriving late, recounted his workday, which included a maddening ministerial briefing in which he’d been permitted two minutes to distinguish among three conflicts, one rooted in a ludicrous colonial-era border, another due to cocaine trans-shipment, a third pertaining to cashew production. In each, armed men swarmed the country, leaving unspeakable wounds, mocking any notion of justice in life. Dispirited, Ivor salted his new potatoes at length.

Day after day, the rallies continued, lasting till after midnight, resuming in the early morning. Coming and going grew awkward – Gerald felt like a strike-breaker pushing through the crowd. When Newsnight broadcast a segment on the embattled insurgency in the Kingdom of Budgerigar, they showed a snippet from the embassy demo, including a shot of Gerald in his bike helmet, fiddling to get his key in the front-door deadbolt.

The protest grew and the litter increased – crisp packets in the gutter, fish bones. Gerald came to dislike the demonstrators and, secretly, longed for them to bugger off – only to wince at this churlish thought, making a point thereafter of accepting all their pamphlets. Tidying up one night, he found himself leafing through the protest literature. The awful claims gripped him and he read to the end, doing follow-up research on the internet. Hard to tell if the government really was that horrible, or if the opposition just had a better website. Nevertheless, he was in a righteous mood when Ivor returned from Whitehall, and was soon advocating the expulsion of their neighbours. They agreed that Ivor would raise the situation at work. To denounce another country was always tricky. Problem was, so many foreign governments were fairly repellent – picking one was, Ivor explained, “a question of resources.”

Plus, any condemnation risked stirring the Daily Mail, which might then pry into Foreign Office programmes that had inadvertently funnelled British taxpayer money to foreign thugs. Thankfully, a review of recent spending in Budgerigar revealed a paltry £843 expen diture – although the associated word “mangoes” was worrying, in the Daily Mailgetting- wind-of-it sense. Nevertheless, Ivor lobbied at work, and he and Gerald missed no opportunity to rail against the regime; they become bores about it. Ivor returned from work aglow one night, having wrung out a three-sentence press release chastening the Budgerigarian administration (though in no way casting aspersions on the nation’s famously succulent grapefruits, nor any affiliated UK-based citrus importers).

Gerald was effervescent about their victory for a few days. But the protesters outside – unaware of his efforts – became no more considerate. Their rowdiness only increased, with noise around the clock.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon, he decided not to skulk inside any more, imprisoned as he had been by the cacophony outside. He had bought this townhouse to enjoy, not to cower in. He marched into his back garden, put on his iPod, and settled down with the FT crossword. When he glimpsed Ústaffa across the fence, Gerald hastened over.

They chatted amiably, lamenting the traffic snarls expected from the Olympics, until Gerald sneaked in a mention of the protesters, noting that they’d be outfoxed, were the embassy personnel to up and move. He passed over a business card from his estate agent.

Within days, the embassy was empty. The protesters dispersed too. Not, it transpired, because of Gerald’s suggestion. But because insurgents had stormed Budgerigar Palace in the capital, ousted the despots, and installed a caretaker council. The rebels, Ivor explained, had been anxiously awaiting any sign of support from the west. And it had come in the form of a three-line British communiqué. Not insignificantly, the insurgents had the good fortune to attack when the entire cabinet was out of the country, attending the summer sales at Harrods.

Presently, a new flag fluttered from the pole next door. The brass nameplate was replaced to reflect the changed title of the state, which Gerald now referred to as the People’s Republic of Parakeet. A new set of diplomats moved in. What relief: they lived beside liberators now. The new neighbours threw a vast Parakeet party in their garden and, though they failed to invite Gerald and Ivor, it seemed a merry occasion. Worryingly, the parties continued. This new lot were so triumphant that they wouldn’t shut up about it, with barbeques all summer, and not just on weekends. Fish bones found their way into Gerald’s back garden, along with beer cans and empty crisp packets.

In a fit of pique, as a live band did its soundcheck on the other side of the fence, Gerald fetched one of the old protest pamphlets, whereupon he called the listed mobile number to learn what they thought of their new regime now. The number rang, seemingly in stereo: once through the handset at Gerald’s ear and again across the fence.

“Yes, hello?” a man replied.

Gerald stood on his tiptoes to see into the adjacent garden.

“Hello?” the man repeated. It was the pudgy bearded protester, now in suit and tie. They had moved in over there.

Gerald hung up. “Shame!” he shrieked. Well, it wasn’t a shriek so much as a mutter, but with a degree of vitriol that was formidable. Autumn arrived and the parties dwindled. Still, the Parakeetians scarcely acknowledged Gerald, even when he and they happened to be putting out rubbish at the same time. As for the stench, this lot were even more prolific eaters of the pungent national fish than their predecessors had been.

All of which was pretty inconsiderate given that it was Gerald who had liberated their homeland in the first place.

Developing countries, he thought, you just want to give up on them after a while, don’t you. One puts one’s faith in the new lot. Then they turn out even worse than the last bunch of bandits.

Tom Rachman is the English/Canadian author of “The Imperfectionists” (Quercus, £7.99)

Tom Rachman is the English/Canadian author of “The Imperfectionists” (Quercus, £7.99).

This article first appeared in the 10 December 2012 issue of the New Statesman, Greece: a warning for Britain?

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For the last time, please, bring back the plate

The slight lip around the edge is no mere bourgeois affectation; it keeps the food contained in its proper place.

The much-vaunted tech revolution is not without its casualties, as I discovered first hand last weekend. The album format, creative boredom and now my favourite skirt: all collateral damage in the vicious battle for our waning attention span.

The last met its end in a pub, when it found itself on the wrong side of a slate slab full of Sunday roast. Once gravy got involved, things turned pretty ugly; and when reinforcements arrived in the form of a red-hot jar of plum crumble, I abandoned all hope of making it out with my dignity intact and began pondering the best way of getting a dry-cleaning bill to Tim Berners-Lee.

I lay the blame for such crimes against food entirely at the feet of the internet. Serving calamari in a wooden clog, or floury baps in a flat cap, is guaranteed to make people whip out their cameraphones to give the restaurant a free plug online.

Sadly for the establishments involved, these diners are increasingly likely to be sending their artistic endeavours to We Want Plates, a campaign group dedicated to giving offenders the kind of publicity they’re probably not seeking. (Highlights from the wall of shame on the campaign’s website include a dog’s bowl of sausage, beans and chips, pork medallions in a miniature urinal, and an amuse-bouche perched on top of an animal skull – “Good luck putting those in the dishwasher”.) Such madness is enough to make you nostalgic for an era when western tableware was so uniform that it moved an astonished Japanese visitor to compose the haiku: “A European meal/Every blessed plate and dish/Is round.”

The ordinary plate has its limitations, naturally: as every Briton knows, fish and chips tastes better when eaten from greasy paper, while a bit of novelty can tickle even the jaded palate at the end of a meal. Watching Jesse Dunford Wood create dessert on the tabletop at his restaurant Parlour is definitely the most fun I’ve ever had with an arctic roll (there’s a great video on YouTube, complete with Pulp Fiction soundtrack).

Yet the humble plate endures by simple dint of sheer practicality. The slight lip around the edge is no mere bourgeois affectation; it keeps the food contained in its proper place, rather than slipping on to the tablecloth, while the flat centre is an ideal surface for cutting – as anyone who has ever tackled sausages and mash in an old army mess tin (“perfect for authentic food presentation”, according to one manufacturer) will attest.

Given these facts, I hope Tom Aikens has invested in good napkins for his latest venture, Pots Pans and Boards in Dubai. According to a local newspaper, “Aikens’s Dubai concept is all in the name”: in other words, everything on the menu will be presented on a pot, pan or board. So the youngest British chef ever to be awarded two Michelin stars is now serving up salade niçoise in an enamel pie dish rightly intended for steak and kidney.

Truly, these are the last days of Rome – except that those civilised Romans would never have dreamed of eating oysters from a rock, or putting peas in an old flowerpot. Indeed, the ancient concept of the stale bread trencher – to be given to the poor, or thrown to the dogs after use – seems positively sophisticated in comparison, although I can’t help seeing the widespread adoption of the modern plate in the 17th century as a great leap forward for mankind, on a par with the internal combustion engine and space travel.

Which is why I have every faith that all those tiny trollies of chips and rough-hewn planks of charcuterie will eventually seem as absurd as surrealist gazelle-skin crockery, or futurist musical boxes full of salad.

In the meantime, may I recommend the adult bib?

Felicity Cloake write the food column for the New Statesman. She also writes for the Guardian and is the author of  Perfect: 68 Essential Recipes for Every Cook's Repertoire (Fig Tree, 2011) and Perfect Host: 162 easy recipes for feeding people & having fun (Fig Tree, 2013). She is on Twitter as @FelicityCloake.

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory tide