Chapter 2

Before long, Burt and the Holy Spirit were well on their way to the BBC. The Holy Spirit sat quietly in the passenger seat at first, but he soon became bored and fidgety, and started playing with the cigarette lighter.

"Careful," warned Burt. "You might accidentally light a cigarette, begin smoking it and become addicted."

"No way," said the Holy Spirit. "Smoking is for sad folks who are desperate to impress someone and be cool. I'm not going to fall for that. It's a bleedin' mugs game."

Burt smiled. "I like your attitude, kiddo," he said, warmly. The Holy Spirit frowned at him. "I mean, Lord," Burt corrected himself, and did the sign of the cross on his chest.

But now they were in sight of the BBC. It was a glorious day, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and people were literally burning to death as society rotted around them. The famous BBC headquarters glistened in the smoke from a thousand corpses. In the car park they found an excellent space right next to the front doors, to which they walked up to... which... to. And entered.

Right there in reception, Greg Dyke was busy throwing money at Jim Davidson and the two of them were laughing in pure insane pleasure.

"So," said Burt gravely. "Society has truly crumbled."

"It has?" asked Greg.

"Yes. Didn't you know?"

"I had no idea", explained Greg. "You see, I'm always throwing money at Jim Davidson for no reason. Do I need to explain this satire further or do you get it now?"

"No, really, it's fine. I get it," Burt reassured him.

"Excellent," said Greg. "Welcome to the BBC. Can I get you anything? A coffee?"

"Coffee would be lovely, yes," said Burt, licking his lips.

"Sugar?" asked the rotund cockney BBC chief.

"Oooh, now you're talking!" enthused Burt. "If there's one thing I really like, it's coffee with a bit of sugar in. But not too much, obviously."

"That's my boy!" said Greg in a fatherly way. He turned to the table and poured a cup of coffee, and then began to urinate noisily into it.

"Oh, man," said Burt. "I forgot to specify that although I like sugar in my coffee, I most definitely do not like urine in my coffee, not at all."

Greg looked somewhat downcast at this. "This is the problem I face daily," he explained. "People really don't know what they want, and if they do, they don't know how to explain it clearly. So I just have to guess, and often the answer I guess is wrong." He appeared very sad, and Burt was quite moved. The smell of hot urine hung between them.

The Holy Spirit tugged Burt's sleeve. Burt leant down. "What is it? Can't you see I'm trying to make friends with Greg Dyke? This better be important."

"Now's your chance," whispered the Holy Spirit, climbing back up onto Burt's shoulders and finally settling on his head. "Greg Dyke needs your strong leadership to tell him what to do. Once you have him on your side, the media will follow like soft young lambs to the slaughterhouse."

"Yes, you're right. I'm sorry I was a bit rude to you." Burt whispered back. He straightened up and faced Greg Dyke with a stern expression.

"Greg, imagine if you never had to worry about any of this stuff ever again. Imagine if there was some way for you to absolve yourself of all responsibility for decision making, and every aspect of your life was clearly laid out before you."

"Oooh!" said Greg. "That would be excellent!"

"Well," said Burt, warming to his theme. "I..." But then he was struck dumb.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The moment she walked into the room, Burt knew he'd found the one. The woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. She was beautiful. He could see just from her face that she was warm, loving and intelligent. And she was not at all slutty. Apart from her breasts. That was the amazing thing. Her face was as pure and innocent as the driven snow, or a fresh drop of dew. But her breasts were quite shockingly whorish. There they were, standing to attention and crying out to be groped. And he was the man to grope them, whilst at the same time fully respecting the rest of her as a person.

In fact, the rest of her was an angel, someone to be forever placed on a pedestal in his heart, honoured by his purest feelings of chivalrous admiration, and if he wandered through the gardens of her mind from now until the end of time, he was happy to be a prisoner of love. And look at those puppies. Oh, ma-ma.

"Mr Dyke," she purred. "I've finished typing that typing you wanted me to type." Then she obviously noticed Burt staring at her. But he couldn't help himself. His eyes flitted from her face to her chest. Up and down. Over and over. Which did he prefer? No, it wasn't that kind of situation. Neither had to be regarded as somehow better. He then realised she was looking at him. Then she realised he'd realised she had realised he was looking at her. This went on for some time.

He tried to calm down. "Calm down, calm down," he muttered to himself with his eyes closed, clenching his fists and swaying gently back and forth. "Fucking calm down, you sod."

The Holy Spirit was hardly helping matters, whispering loudly in his ear, "I think you should do sex with her a bit later on." Burt hissed back, "Will you not say things like that please? What if someone hears?"

Greg took several sheets of typed paper from the woman. "Thank you, Tiffany."

Burt swallowed loudly. Oh God, even her name was perfect. Tiffany was not only his favourite pop star, but also his favourite character from Eastenders (the woman who played her was in real life his second favourite pop star.) Not that any of that mattered now, as society had crumbled. But with Burt's strong leadership, he would rebuild society and put all Tiffanies back where they belonged. And Weezer; they were a much underrated band in the old society, but he would ensure they received the acclaim they deserved.

He cleared his throat and resumed. "Greg, as I was saying. The thing you really need right now is someone to organise everything. Well, not actually organise everything - other people can take care of the details. But someone to oversee things generally. A person with the strength of character to give orders. Well, not actually give the orders, as in actually figuring out what the orders should be. But the person pulling the strings. Well, not the actual strings - that might be dangerous. But maybe some pretend strings that just ring little bells when you pull them."

Greg nodded. "I know exactly what you mean. I've been waiting my entire life for someone to come and offer me that kind of leadership."

Burt stared straight at Greg, but he could feel Tiffany watching him, undressing him with her eyes. Some how, this gave him the strength to say what had to be said. "Greg, your long wait is over. I am your new leader. And not just your leader, but the leader of a new Britain. Perhaps even a whole new world order - it depends. I don't know if this stuff is happening in America yet."

Greg looked puzzled. "How do you know? I mean... this is quite a big deal. How can you be sure?"

"Because," said Burt, becoming slightly impatient, "the Holy Spirit is sitting on my head. He tells me things." He felt the Holy Spirit jumping up and down, excited at the mention of his name.

"Where?" said Greg. "I can't see him."

"Oh, well he's probably invisible to everyone else except me," Burt theorized.

"Fair enough," said Greg.

*   *   *   *   *

Greg went off to play golf for a while, and so Burt and Tiffany went for a stroll together through the lush grounds of BBC Television Centre.

"This is nice," said Burt.

"Yes!" said Tiffany warmly, her teeth sparkling.

"A chance to get to know each other!" continued Burt awkwardly. Then there was a long silence. Why was he always so uncomfortable with girls?

He began to regret sending the Holy Spirit off to spy on Greg. Although the Holy Spirit could be irritating sometimes, and occasionally gave unwelcome advice, this was one time when Burt would have welcomed almost any advice, even rubbish advice such as "Buy Estonian." If only he knew what to say next.

Tiffany seemed to guess what he was thinking, because she stopped walking and put her hand on his arm. He got a slight stiffy.

"Burt," she said. "I know it's difficult to know what to say in these kinds of situation. But I'll tell you something. From the moment I saw you, I recognised your leadership skills and I decided then and there that I wanted to get to know you, for fun, laughter, long walks - perhaps more."

Burt moved his right leg slightly in an attempt to disguise his growing erection. "Thank you, Tiffany." He noticed that whenever he said her name, he couldn't help saying it as "Tif-fanny", with inappropriate emphasis on the "fanny" part.

Then there was a loud commotion and a blowing of breeze, not to mention a sort of helicoptery sound. Sure enough, it was Greg Dyke returning in his helicopter. He emerged with a triumphant smile.

"Yes! I totally won that golf match," he shouted over the sound of the helicopter. "The other guy's bat was rubbish, that's partly why. But also because of my skill."

"That's excellent, Greg. I'm very proud of you," said Burt.

Greg looked quite moved by this. "Thank you, Leader," he said. Tiffany squeezed Burt's arm and smiled at him.

The Holy Spirit nuzzled against Burt's knee happily. He began to feel quite misty eyed, because he knew he'd found a sort of family at last. Tiffany was his wife, Greg was his son - although Greg was older than him, it seemed to work in a vague metaphorical way. And as for the Holy Spirit, why, he was the perfect family pet - great with kids, probably, and fully house trained. Burt verified this by patting his head to see if there was any shit or piss on it - but it was clean as a whistle.

"And now, my Leader, it's time for your first broadcast to the new nation."

Burt could hardly contain his excitement. "I'm King of the World!" he shouted, throwing his arms out wide. The others all applauded him.

Chapter 3...