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Chapter 3 Greg led Burt down a special corridor. At first it was very wide, but it gradually became thinner and thinner. At one point it was only a millimetre wide, but they took a different route, so they didn't see that part. Eventually they arrived in a large room with cameras and stuff like that. Greg stopped in the middle of the room. "Leader, this is where your first broadcast will be filmed." "Oh, wicked!" said Burt. "What other things have been filmed here?" "Oh, loads," said Greg airily. "Beat the Teacher, Lennie the Lion, The Onedin Line, Galloping Galaxies-" "I can't believe it," Burt interrupted in his excitement. "Those are all my favourite programmes! Sorry. Carry on." "It's okay, Leader. Most people get pretty excited by the world of television. Other shows filmed here include The Golden Oldie Picture Show-" "Hang on, so was that not really Dave Lee Travis's fireplace?" "No," said Greg gently. "That's something you have to learn about the world of television - much of what you see is an illusion." He emphasised the word illusion by waving his hand back and forth across his face. Burt wasn't quite sure what to make of this. If Greg Dyke would lie to the viewers without so much as a second thought, how could Burt trust him? Suppose Greg could not be trusted? Burt would have to be on his guard. But then he thought of a question. "Greg, seeing as how society has crumbled, who's going to work the cameras?" It was a good point. Apart from the three of them (including the Holy Spirit, who had taken up his usual position on Burt's head), the room was deserted. Greg thought about this for a bit. "Hang on. I'll be back in a few minutes." He started to walk away, but then stopped and turn back to look Burt straight in the eye. He spoke slowly and definitely. "Don't go exploring about too much while I'm gone, okay?" Burt gulped. Suddenly Greg seemed quite scary. "Okay, I won't." Greg's smile returned. "Good! I won't be long." And with that, Greg swept out of the room importantly. But Burt couldn't just sit there. Firstly, he was a naturally curious person. On several occasions in his past life, he had nosed about in things that were none of his business, usually with terrible results - especially when he nosed about in a woman's pants. Secondly, Greg's words had increased Burt's curiosity to fever pitch. The fact that Greg didn't want him to look around too much made him think that Greg had something to hide, some big secret. Burt had to know what it was. It was like the time when he had to try on a pair of tights just to see how it felt. The feeling was too strong to ignore. But thirdly, and most of all, there was a door at the far end of the room. The door did not appear to be locked, but it did have a sign on it that said: PRIVATE. That was the straw that broke the back of the donkey that was Burt's curiosity's cat-donkey hybrid. Greg could be back at any moment, so he wouldn't have long. He ran over to the door and pushed it. It opened easily. He walked through, ducking down slightly so that the Holy Spirit wouldn't bang his head on the door frame. Inside, he was amazed to find a row of filing cabinets. It stretched to what seemed like an infinite distance in each direction. The cabinet directly in front of Burt was labelled: MAS-MAT "What in the name of dry fucking does that mean?", wondered Burt. He tugged on the top drawer, and was surprised to find that it opened easily. It was full of cardboard files, through which he began to flick. He pulled one out at random and read: MASSIVE ATTACK It was strange. Almost as if he'd found the instructions for Massive Attack, the pop band. He put the file back in the draw and walked along the row of cabinets. He could see now that they were labelled alphabetically, but they took a long time to progress through the letters. "What do you think all this is, Holy Spirit?" he wondered. "Well," said the Holy Spirit, "I don't know, but you'd think they'd have this kind of thing on computers these days." "That's true," said Burt. "When I'm finally running things, that's probably one of the first things I'll do. Introduce computers more widely." "And can we play games on them?" asked the Holy Spirit, becoming excited. "No," said Burt, sternly. "Games are banned." He could feel the Holy Spirit sighing with disappointment; clearly being a leader was going to be tough, but he would have to stick to his guns. He was just flicking through the instructions for Madonna when he had a thought. "Oh shitting shit!" he said. "What?" said the Holy Spirit. He had learned by this stage to recognise the approach of a brilliant insight from Burt - or at least a fair excuse to jump up and down on Burt's head. He bent his knees to limber himself up in preparation. "I've just had a thought," said Burt. "Greg didn't want me to go exploring. He clearly didn't want me to find these filing cabinets." "Yes," said the Holy Spirit. "I worked that out ages ago." "But don't you see?" said Burt. "How can I really be in charge, in that case? He's just trying to manipulate me for some reason." "Yes, I know. It's obvious," said the Holy Spirit. "He's told you that you are the leader to further his own evil ends. He's going to try and make you think that you are in charge of the country and meanwhile he will be carrying out some kind of horrible plan." "Man, that's depressing," said Burt. They were silent for a few moments. Then Burt piped up. "I've just had another thought. What if somewhere in these filing cabinets, there are the instructions for being me?" "Oh fucking hell," said the Holy Spirit. "It'd be like discovering the meaning of life." "Exactly. I'd know exactly what I was supposed to be doing. And that's the one thing that's been pissing me off all these years. What the fuck am I supposed to be doing with myself all this time? Watching fucking Film 2003 with Jonathon Ross? I think not." "Definitely not that," said the Holy Spirit, hopping on one leg a little. "Well then. I'm going to find my bloody instructions." And he started walking. "Hang on, though," said the Holy Spirit. "You walked quite a long way just then, and you only got as far as Madonna. It could be miles till you get to your last name, which begins with H, as was established previously." "And it might not even be my last name", observed Burt. "What if I'm filed under B for Burt? Oh... pissing cunting fuckballs." He ground to a halt and wondered how to proceed. "I've had an idea," said the Holy Spirit. "We're in the M section, so it's probably not much further until we reach MY. Somewhere in there, you should find a file marked MY INSTRUCTIONS. They'll obviously tell you what to do." "Fuck me, that's an excellent idea," said Greg. "Remind me to pray more often," he quipped. "I will!" said the Holy Spirit, in a sort of jovial "work humour" not-actually-that-funny type way. And then Burt had a though. "Oh... cuntbuggery. I think this whole corridor might be conceptually incoherent." "How do you mean?" asked the Holy Spirit. But just then, Burt thought he heard the distant sound of Greg walking up an echoy corridor. "Oh toss-buckets," he whispered. He threw the Madonna instructions on the ground and started running back toward the door. He skidded to a halt, got through the door and ran back to the middle of the studio, just in time to see Greg walking back in. "Ahh, there you are, Leader!" said Greg cheerfully. "Yes, hello Greg!" said Burt. "I certainly haven't been nosing around in things that don't concern me." "Superb, Leader," said Greg. "It sounds like you've followed my advice very carefully. Now, this is Andrew." He pointed at a man in brown overalls. "Hello!" said Andrew cheerfully. "Andrew is the last person working at the BBC," continued Greg. "Apart from myself and Jim Davidson, of course." "Of course," agreed Burt, in what he hoped was a bright and attentive-sounding voice. "Remember," the Holy Spirit whispered into Burt's ear. "Anything Greg says might be a lie. You cannot trust him." "So, er... Andrew," said Burt. "How long have you been a cameraman?" "Oooooh. Now let me think," said Andrew, rubbing his hands together. "Not very long. Actually, come to think of it, I wasn't a cameraman, not until just now." "I just promoted him," explained Greg. "As I am in charge of the BBC, if I say someone is a cameraman, then they immediately become one." He beamed happily, and then frowned. "Of course, the final decision in all cases will be yours, Leader." "Yes, quite," said Burt, nodding approvingly, but inwardly he was thinking, you lying two-faced bastard. "Okay," said Greg. "Let's get going! Why don't you sit behind that desk to give your speech, Leader?" Burt wandered over to the desk, and sat behind it hesitantly. "Just here?" "Yes, that's fantastic, Leader. Ooh, this is going to look so good. And now Andrew, you can start operating the camera." "Right-oh!" said Andrew with immense enthusiasm. He ran to the nearest television camera, and started pushing it around the room, making "Brrrrrrrrm, brrrrrrrrm" noises. "Excellent, that's just the ticket," said Greg. "Okay, and... action!" He pointed his finger at Burt. |