The End of the War Against Terrorism
Derek Smawk
had tipped the balance of the election by making an ill-advised guarantee that
he would end the war against terrorism. His victory against the opposition was
aided in no small part by a series of unsuccessful but potentially catastrophic
attempted car bombings by a small terrorist group fighting for the liberation
of
Victory against the terrorists was not going to come as easily. Indeed, after three and a half years in power, Smawk had discovered that his promise to the electorate was all but impossible to fulfil. Of course, politicians are rarely bound by their promises (Prime Ministers especially), but in this respect Smawk was a casualty of his pre-election confidence; during that period he had given a number of interviews complacently declaring that if the war against terrorism hadn’t ended within four years of his leadership, he would definitely resign. These interviews had become decidedly convenient to an opposition who had realised that Smawk wasn’t up to much as a Prime Minister, a media who agreed with them, a country who agreed with whatever the media told it and a party who hadn’t much wanted Smawk to be their leader in the first place, and he found that hardly a day went past when he wasn’t taunted with footage of his own stupid mouth opening and closing with words that guaranteed the end of his political career in around six months’ time.
‘The problem is,’ Smawk said to his political advisor, ‘ending the war against terrorism isn’t like ending an ordinary war.’ His political advisor was the only person left who would still listen to Smawk talking about the war against terrorism – all the civil servants, the spin doctors and the sycophantic junior members of Parliament had long since sensed an oncoming leadership challenge and gone scurrying off like rats in search of a better-made ship. His political advisor’s most important advice to date had been to leave terrorism out of the election manifesto altogether, so she considered it particularly unfair that she was now the default punchbag for the Prime Minister’s self-inflicted angst.
‘If it was an ordinary war,’ Smawk continued as he paced up and down his office, ‘it would be easy; I’d get the leader of whoever we were fighting into a room, we’d have a few drinks, I’d offer whatever concessions they were after, we’d shake hands and peace would reign.’ He stopped pacing and miserably put his hands into his pockets. ‘That simply isn’t possible with terrorists. Who would I get into the room to negotiate with? They’re not organised enough to have a leader, they all just go at it as and when they please. It’s not even clear how we communicate with them – we don’t have so much as a phone number.’
‘Not even a return address for those grainy videos they keep sending to issue threats?’ Smawk’s political advisor meekly asked. Smawk, who was midway through seating himself at his desk, slammed his fist down on its surface without warning.
‘The videos!’ he exploded. ‘They say it all, don’t they? Why the bloody hell are they still using video? Judging by the quality they’re still recording straight to VHS with something from the 1980s! You’d get better quality with a webcam and a memory stick. They’re a bloody shambles.’
‘Perhaps they feel that video has a more sinister quality?’ suggested Smawk’s political advisor. She was something of a connoisseur of 80s horror films and her personal view was that nothing could recreate the sense of creeping, hissing, wobbly, liney horror that you got with video – which was fortunate because few of her favourites were available in any other format.
‘It’s because they’re a bloody shambles!’ reiterated the Prime Minister. ‘It’s no wonder I can’t make peace with them, they’re a complete mess! It’s their fault, not mine!’
‘Maybe their lack of organisation is one of the ways they feel they can best create terror?’ pointed out Smawk’s political advisor, to whom a missing diary entry was as nightmarish as an 80s horror film, if less enjoyable. But Smawk wasn’t listening.
‘If I can’t speak to their leader,’ he was musing, ‘and naturally I can’t get every single one of them into a room to negotiate with… perhaps a representative terrorist would do for the lot of them?’
‘You could at least make an official peace,’ agreed his political advisor, ‘even if the other terrorists chose to ignore it.’
‘Right!’ said Smawk. ‘And nobody could blame me for that!’ So he set about finding a representative terrorist to negotiate with.
The ideal candidate presented himself in the form of Stephen Repton, founder member of a small organisation called “Funding Arts”. Having been refused funding for a PhD in music in spite of achieving an outstanding double first at an Oxbridge college, Repton had decided that the government needed to be called to account for their flagrant disregard for the arts and humanities when it came to the national budget. Being an out-of-work musician, he had the advantage of week after week of completely empty days in which to plot and put into action dramatic demonstrations for his cause. Most recently he had arranged for thousands of percussionists to take woodblocks onto underground trains and spend an entire day performing works by Philip Glass to the commuters and tourists. ‘And if that isn’t terrorism,’ said Smawk to himself, ‘then what is?’
The Prime Minister was dismayed to learn from the Chancellor of the Exchequer that there was no money available to make concessions to any musician, since the budget at that time was largely committed to paying for the previous year’s budget. In the unlikely event that money was left over, the Chancellor explained, it would be needed for defence. He was not to be swayed by Smawk’s hopeful argument that arts funding could come from the defence budget since it would, after all, end the war against terrorism.
‘People want to see missiles, not musicals,’ the Chancellor stonily replied, without a trace of humour. Smawk had no choice but to consider what concessions he might make to the group known as “Funding Arts” other than actually funding arts. He found a solution in a more traditional approach.
‘To bring an end to our feud,’ Smawk told Repton, ‘and to show the world that from now on we will be working together, I am prepared to offer you my daughter’s hand in marriage.’
Repton frowned. ‘But you’re not prepared to make any changes to the level of arts funding?’ he persisted.
‘It’s a very complex issue,’ Smawk explained, vaguely. ‘Of course,’ he hastily added, ‘as my son-in-law you could certainly expect my personal support for any financial needs as far as your PhD was concerned.’
Repton frowned again and took a gulp of the 1787 Chateau d’Yquem they were drinking, the cost of which would have paid for fifteen music PhDs, and considered the offer. He wasn’t really the marrying type; on the other hand, he had grown weary of organising demonstrations when all he really wanted to do was a PhD in music, and a wife would make his parents happy. ‘What’s she like?’ he asked.
‘Not especially attractive,’ admitted the Prime Minister, ‘but she’s quiet.’
And so it was that Prime Minister Smawk appeared on the cover of every newspaper the next morning, grinning broadly and holding hands with his daughter on one side and her fiancé on the other, and declaring that the war against terrorism was over. ‘This marriage,’ he announced, ‘seals a future in which the British people will no longer fight terrorists but will work with them, side by side, to make a better world.’ The voters were impressed; suddenly, Smawk was a hero. The civil servants, the spin doctors and the sycophantic junior members of Parliament came scurrying back to renew their devotion to the Prime Minister, who effortlessly flew to a second election victory the next year.
Four days later the Welsh
People’s Liberation Front succeeded in crashing five trucks loaded with
gelignite into the Scottish Parliament, blowing up half of the building and
killing 107 people, an action explained in a grainy video by a bearded Welshman
angrily saying that if
The Prime Minister was naturally called to account. ‘This was not an act of terrorism,’ he told the world at a press conference, a statement confirmed by Steven Repton, now his son-in-law, who had been quickly unearthed from his thesis on Shostakovich to condemn the attack on behalf of all terrorists.
A few days later, after several meetings with a PR company, Smawk made a second announcement. ‘The attack,’ he said with a sad, serious expression, ‘was carried out by activists. Since we can not allow our country to be intimidated in this way, I have no choice but to declare that we are now at war with activism.’
Distressing though the news was, a ray of hope came in the form of a message from the Welsh activist leader indicating that he was prepared to negotiate with the Prime Minister. Willing as ever to find a peaceful solution, Prime Minister Smawk duly ordered another bottle of Chateau d’Yquem and arranged a meeting.
‘You must understand,’ he told
the Welsh activist leader, ‘that the liberation of
‘Ah. Oh. I see,’ nodded the Welsh activist leader, looking distracted and nervous. He swallowed and shifted in his seat. ‘Oh well,’ he said, and gave the Prime Minister an edgy smile. Then he leaned forward and rested his shaking hands on the table, ready for business. ‘Well then,’ he began. Smawk nodded encouragingly and the Welsh activist leader cleared his throat. Finally, he spoke again, a sheepish look on his face. ‘Do you have any more daughters?’ he asked.