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Yes, Minister - The Crux of the Matter

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Jollyrei

Angelus Mortis
Staff member
It's been a while since I've posted a story. This one is mercifully short, but I do hope you find it amusing. I personally found it pleasantly challenging to try to reproduce the style and wit of the the excellent BBC comedy "Yes, Minister", which many of you may remember either from the 1980s or from reruns on television. Certainly worth a watch if you haven't seen it. Anyway, I thought it might lend itself to a crux episode, and so here we go. In the style of the genre, there are three main characters:

The Hon. James Wragg – Minister of Culture, Media and Sport.
Sir Jollyrei Appletree – Permanent Secretary.
Mr. Robert Inder – Personal Private Secretary to the Minister.

Other honourable inclusions: Eulalia and Barb (because it was necessary).

I have situated the Ministry of Culture, Media and Sport on Great George Street, Parliament Square, Westminster, which I think is as accurate as one can be for anyone who knows the government sector of London/Westminster. Also, for much of the travel bits, I tried to make it so the Minister's car was actually driving on real motorways, and past real parks and landmarks, where warranted. That's mainly so Wragg and Bob don't continually go "but, Jolly, that's actually in Yorkshire and nowehere near London." We'll see how well I've done there. :D

Anyway I give you the short story in 4 parts: Yes, Minister - The Crux of the Matter
 
Yes, Minister: The Crux of the Matter.

The black Vauxhall glided across London, coming back into town moving south along the M1 from St. Albans. The Hon. James Wragg, Minister of Culture, Media and Sport, sat in the rear seat feeling smug. He’d got those St. Albans clergy where he wanted them. Either they increased the parish attendance at the Cathedral by 20%, or he’d reduce their government stipend.

“I think that went very well,” said Minister Wragg, smiling with satisfaction, “don’t you Bob?”

“Well, Minister,” said Bob Inder cautiously, “I suppose it depends on how one looks at it.”

Mr. Robert Inder was the Minister’s Private Secretary, which is to say, the Minister’s personal advisor on relations with the Minister’s department. He never quite knew what his actual role was except to listen to the Minister’s latest ideas.

“Nonsense, Bob,” said Wragg. “Our government has promised to make government spending make sense, and paying for empty cathedrals, however nice they are, is not in the public interest.”

“Well, Minister,” said Bob tentatively, “you know that the cathedrals do much more than just hold services for parishioners.”

“Like what?” asked Wragg.

“Well, tourists like them,” said Bob. “And the Cathedral of St Albans is well known as the origin of hot cross buns.”

“Hot cross buns!?” exclaimed Wragg. “No, I am more and more sure that I’ve made the right decision.”

“To close the cathedral?” asked Bob.

“I’m not closing anything,” said Wragg. “If they can demonstrate that they’re serving people, they keep their stipend. Otherwise it gets cut by 20%. That’s all. They can sack a bishop or something to make up the savings.” The Minister laughed at his joke.

“I don’t suppose they have many pawns to sacrifice,” said Bob, sardonically, "and it's not their role to sacrifice the Queen."

“Hah,” said Wragg, "perish the thought." He looked at the scenery flitting by out the window. “That’s very good, Bob. I might use that in my speech in the Commons.” The car slowed down for traffic as the M1 slowed going past the Elstree Open Space, a large bit of parkland with a manor at the east end. The manor was now a hotel. The park itself contained Llamas, or so Wragg had heard. He gazed out at the parkland and did not see a Llama at all.

What he did see was a cross, surrounded by people in colourful kilts. One of them was playing bagpipes. Wragg gave a grateful sigh considering the soundproofing on the car. He thought the whole scene odd. What were these apparent Scots doing with a cross in this park?

He took another look, suddenly more intent. It looked very much like there was a girl hanging on the cross. A topless, brown haired girl. She was bound to the cross with intricately tied ropes, and was writhing and struggling, almost dancing thought Wragg. She wore a colourful tartan kilt like the other figures in the scene. Suddenly, one of the men reached up and tore the kilt off the girl and she hung exposed and naked on the cross.

“Bob!” said Wragg urgently.

“Yes, Minister,” said Bob calmly.

“Do you see that cross?”

“In the park?” asked Bob calmly. “Yes Minister. It very much looks like a girl, hanging on it” said Bob unperterbed. He felt quite sure of this.

“But what’s she doing there?” asked Wragg.

“Hanging around,” said Bob. “I expect,” he added looking a little sheepish. “I’m sorry, Minister,” he added as Wragg glared at him, “I expect it’s some sort of theatrical or cultural thing.”

Bob took another look at the girl on the cross. She was slim, with dark hair and hung fully naked on the cross in the evening sunshine. She struggled against the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles to the cross, but they were obviously firmly tied. He got the impression that she was moving at least in part to encourage the activities of the kilted people around her. She was quite attractive, he had to concede.

“Well, I think it’s barbaric,” said Wragg.

“Sorry?” said Bob, coming out of his reverie. “What’s barbaric?”

“Don’t be silly, Bob,” said Wragg. “Crucifying a young girl in the nude in public, in Britain, in this day and age.”

“Well, I suppose she might catch cold,” said Bob.

“I don’t mean that,” said Wragg. “I mean this barbaric and sexist display. It’s setting Britain back centuries.”

“Well,” said Bob in a warning tone of voice. “I can’t quite think of anything they’re doing that’s legally wrong…”

“Can’t think of anything…” sputtered Wragg.

“…provided they have the proper permits,” finished Bob.

“Permits!?” exclaimed Wragg. “Who in their right mind would issue permits for this sort of thing.”

“Well,” said Bob, “you, perhaps.”

“Me!?” asked Wragg. “Don’t be daft.”

“Oh, not you personally,” said Bob, “but the Department certainly, if it’s a cultural event.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Wragg. “Permits, here in Britain, for crucifixions of naked girls? No, we’re going to put a stop to this right now! Driver, into the park and call the police!”

“Very good, sir,” said the driver and turned left into the tree-lined drive into the park. In the meantime he got on the car phone and soon there were two dark blue police cars and a van with their telltale flashing lights.

The Minister gave the signal and the cars moved down the drive and finally stopped where the young girl was hanging on her cross.

Bob noted, just to make sure he had a complete set of notes, that she was quite totally naked. She was slim, and had dark hair around shoulder length, and dark eyes. Her breasts were not terribly large, he thought, but looked nicely rounded and probably would feel satiny and soft. He had no real evidence to support that, but his experience with girls suggested that they looked the satiny kind. He could only imagine what her pink nipples would feel like. He decided he probably shouldn’t try to imagine that right now. Her torso was slim and there was a small swell at her belly, which descended gracefully to a fine thatch of a trimmed triangle of… Bob decided that perhaps his notes were getting a bit too comprehensive. The girl was using her lithe body to bob and sway on the cross, occasionally gasping. She was using her dark eyes to glare at the Minister who was directing the police. Some of the young men dressed in kilts tried to run, but were rounded up by the police.

“Here,” said one of the young men who was holding a whip, “we got a permit and everything.” He pulled a crumpled document out of his sporran.

“Never mind that,” said Wragg. “Just round them up, Constable, and let’s get that poor girl down.” He was trying to look the gallant gentleman coming to the rescue, but the sight of the pretty curves of the girl’s breasts and her skin – she did have lovely skin – and then there was. Well, he always found that the differences between men and women were the most interesting part, on the woman of course. She was quite striking, he reflected, stretched and hanging exposed on her cross. He was suddenly aware of a tightness in the trousers area and a distinct need to have a sit down. The cross was coming down now anyway.

Two police women got the girl down from the cross as the kilted men were being loaded into the police van, still yelling something about permits. They put a blanket over her shoulders. She was glaring at them and then more pointedly at Wragg.

“There you are, young lady,” said Wragg. “I daresay you’re lucky we happened along.”

“Ye great pillock!” said the girl forcefully.

Wragg smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, but he felt a bit nervous now. Surely it wasn’t wrong to get girls off of crosses. “She’s obviously overcome by her ordeal. Get her some tea, I think, Constable.”

As Wragg got back in the car with Bob, he thought he heard the girl say, “Bastards!”

to be continued...
 
Simply brilliant!!! Loving every word of it. Perhaps it’s gotten to me especially because I am reading it at 4 am on a sleepless night … but I doubt that’s it. Jolly has definitely crafted a brilliantly entertaining story. What a lovely way to kick off the new year at CruxForums. Can’t wait for the next installment!
 
Jim will fix it!

Title suggestion: Crux Minister!

This is going to be fun, mixing my favourite tv series of all time with Crux- is there a way to put this in the very top of my Watch list? I cannot wait for Jollyrei Appletee’s reaction. That’ll be a language challenge, I expect!

Great opening, @Jollyrei
 
“Oh, not you personally,” said Bob, “but the Department certainly, if it’s a cultural event.”
He's Minister of Culture, Media and Sport, so it could be a sporting event, I suppose. And where are the tabloids? How could they not have been tipped off?

Wonderful to see you back writing, Jolly! Good thing they did this in London rather than Ottawa; poor Eul's lovely parts would be frozen right off!
 
The park itself contained Llamas, or so Wragg had heard. He gazed out at the parkland and did not see a Llama at all.
If Bob is half as pedantic as Bernard (in the tv show), he would explain to the Minister as a matter of urgency that the so-called “llamas” of Elstree Open Space are in fact Alpacas (species Lama Pacos) which, while a relative of the larger Llama (species Lama Glama) is nonetheless scientifically viewed as a separate species, despite the fact that interbreeding is said to be possible. The Minister would respond with a characteristic eye-roll, but otherwise totally ignore the information.
 
Yes, Minister: The Crux of the Matter.

The black Vauxhall glided across London, coming back into town moving south along the M1 from St. Albans. The Hon. James Wragg, Minister of Culture, Media and Sport, sat in the rear seat feeling smug. He’d got those St. Albans clergy where he wanted them. Either they increased the parish attendance at the Cathedral by 20%, or he’d reduce their government stipend.

“I think that went very well,” said Minister Wragg, smiling with satisfaction, “don’t you Bob?”

“Well, Minister,” said Bob Inder cautiously, “I suppose it depends on how one looks at it.”

Mr. Robert Inder was the Minister’s Private Secretary, which is to say, the Minister’s personal advisor on relations with the Minister’s department. He never quite knew what his actual role was except to listen to the Minister’s latest ideas.

“Nonsense, Bob,” said Wragg. “Our government has promised to make government spending make sense, and paying for empty cathedrals, however nice they are, is not in the public interest.”

“Well, Minister,” said Bob tentatively, “you know that the cathedrals do much more than just hold services for parishioners.”

“Like what?” asked Wragg.

“Well, tourists like them,” said Bob. “And the Cathedral of St Albans is well known as the origin of hot cross buns.”

“Hot cross buns!?” exclaimed Wragg. “No, I am more and more sure that I’ve made the right decision.”

“To close the cathedral?” asked Bob.

“I’m not closing anything,” said Wragg. “If they can demonstrate that they’re serving people, they keep their stipend. Otherwise it gets cut by 20%. That’s all. They can sack a bishop or something to make up the savings.” The Minister laughed at his joke.

“I don’t suppose they have many pawns to sacrifice,” said Bob, sardonically, "and it's not their role to sacrifice the Queen."

“Hah,” said Wragg, "perish the thought." He looked at the scenery flitting by out the window. “That’s very good, Bob. I might use that in my speech in the Commons.” The car slowed down for traffic as the M1 slowed going past the Elstree Open Space, a large bit of parkland with a manor at the east end. The manor was now a hotel. The park itself contained Llamas, or so Wragg had heard. He gazed out at the parkland and did not see a Llama at all.

What he did see was a cross, surrounded by people in colourful kilts. One of them was playing bagpipes. Wragg gave a grateful sigh considering the soundproofing on the car. He thought the whole scene odd. What were these apparent Scots doing with a cross in this park?

He took another look, suddenly more intent. It looked very much like there was a girl hanging on the cross. A topless, brown haired girl. She was bound to the cross with intricately tied ropes, and was writhing and struggling, almost dancing thought Wragg. She wore a colourful tartan kilt like the other figures in the scene. Suddenly, one of the men reached up and tore the kilt off the girl and she hung exposed and naked on the cross.

“Bob!” said Wragg urgently.

“Yes, Minister,” said Bob calmly.

“Do you see that cross?”

“In the park?” asked Bob calmly. “Yes Minister. It very much looks like a girl, hanging on it” said Bob unperterbed. He felt quite sure of this.

“But what’s she doing there?” asked Wragg.

“Hanging around,” said Bob. “I expect,” he added looking a little sheepish. “I’m sorry, Minister,” he added as Wragg glared at him, “I expect it’s some sort of theatrical or cultural thing.”

Bob took another look at the girl on the cross. She was slim, with dark hair and hung fully naked on the cross in the evening sunshine. She struggled against the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles to the cross, but they were obviously firmly tied. He got the impression that she was moving at least in part to encourage the activities of the kilted people around her. She was quite attractive, he had to concede.

“Well, I think it’s barbaric,” said Wragg.

“Sorry?” said Bob, coming out of his reverie. “What’s barbaric?”

“Don’t be silly, Bob,” said Wragg. “Crucifying a young girl in the nude in public, in Britain, in this day and age.”

“Well, I suppose she might catch cold,” said Bob.

“I don’t mean that,” said Wragg. “I mean this barbaric and sexist display. It’s setting Britain back centuries.”

“Well,” said Bob in a warning tone of voice. “I can’t quite think of anything they’re doing that’s legally wrong…”

“Can’t think of anything…” sputtered Wragg.

“…provided they have the proper permits,” finished Bob.

“Permits!?” exclaimed Wragg. “Who in their right mind would issue permits for this sort of thing.”

“Well,” said Bob, “you, perhaps.”

“Me!?” asked Wragg. “Don’t be daft.”

“Oh, not you personally,” said Bob, “but the Department certainly, if it’s a cultural event.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Wragg. “Permits, here in Britain, for crucifixions of naked girls? No, we’re going to put a stop to this right now! Driver, into the park and call the police!”

“Very good, sir,” said the driver and turned left into the tree-lined drive into the park. In the meantime he got on the car phone and soon there were two dark blue police cars and a van with their telltale flashing lights.

The Minister gave the signal and the cars moved down the drive and finally stopped where the young girl was hanging on her cross.

Bob noted, just to make sure he had a complete set of notes, that she was quite totally naked. She was slim, and had dark hair around shoulder length, and dark eyes. Her breasts were not terribly large, he thought, but looked nicely rounded and probably would feel satiny and soft. He had no real evidence to support that, but his experience with girls suggested that they looked the satiny kind. He could only imagine what her pink nipples would feel like. He decided he probably shouldn’t try to imagine that right now. Her torso was slim and there was a small swell at her belly, which descended gracefully to a fine thatch of a trimmed triangle of… Bob decided that perhaps his notes were getting a bit too comprehensive. The girl was using her lithe body to bob and sway on the cross, occasionally gasping. She was using her dark eyes to glare at the Minister who was directing the police. Some of the young men dressed in kilts tried to run, but were rounded up by the police.

“Here,” said one of the young men who was holding a whip, “we got a permit and everything.” He pulled a crumpled document out of his sporran.

“Never mind that,” said Wragg. “Just round them up, Constable, and let’s get that poor girl down.” He was trying to look the gallant gentleman coming to the rescue, but the sight of the pretty curves of the girl’s breasts and her skin – she did have lovely skin – and then there was. Well, he always found that the differences between men and women were the most interesting part, on the woman of course. She was quite striking, he reflected, stretched and hanging exposed on her cross. He was suddenly aware of a tightness in the trousers area and a distinct need to have a sit down. The cross was coming down now anyway.

Two police women got the girl down from the cross as the kilted men were being loaded into the police van, still yelling something about permits. They put a blanket over her shoulders. She was glaring at them and then more pointedly at Wragg.

“There you are, young lady,” said Wragg. “I daresay you’re lucky we happened along.”

“Ye great pillock!” said the girl forcefully.

Wragg smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, but he felt a bit nervous now. Surely it wasn’t wrong to get girls off of crosses. “She’s obviously overcome by her ordeal. Get her some tea, I think, Constable.”

As Wragg got back in the car with Bob, he thought he heard the girl say, “Bastards!”

to be continued...
Well, the whole South American camelid thing is complicated. You wouldn't expect a bureaucrat to be totally versed in it.
 
Phase 2:

“…the apparent crucifixion of the girl, who only gave her name as Eulalia, was stopped personally by the Minister for Culture, James Wragg…” (the television picture showed a picture of Wragg walking stiffly and awkwardly to his car). Wragg turned off the set.

“Well,” said Wragg with a smile. “That showed them, eh, Bob? Decisiveness. Leadership. Minister steps in for British women and the defence of culture. I thought that went very well, although they could have chosen a better video clip of me. Even so, 'stopped personally by the Minister'. Sounds good.”

The door opened and Sir Jollyrei Appletree, the department’s Permanent Secretary entered. The Permanent Secretary is the person in charge of the whole department and all the public servants who work there. In a relationship where the Minister is appointed by the Queen to lead on certain issues, and the Permanent Secretary is supposed to manage the workings of the department, the political and administrative interests of the government did not always line up perfectly. Wragg always thought he was being carefully managed by Sir Jolly.

“Ah, Jolly,” said Wragg. “Did you see the news? I made a firm stand for the decency of British culture.”

“I did wonder what you were doing there, Minister,” said Jolly. “Only interference in cultural events is not normally seen as the responsibility of our department or our Minister. We leave that to the Home Office, or perhaps the Church of England.”

“Well, I stopped a barbaric and sexist display,” said Wragg.

“If you say so, Minister,” said Jolly. “I only hope we can deal with the consequences and repercussions.”

“Consequences and repercussions,” said Wragg. “What could those possibly be?”

“Well,” said Bob, “for any action, there is a predictable, or perhaps unpredictable reaction.”

“Thank you, Bob,” said Wragg.

“I think what Bob means,” said Jolly, “is that in politics, and indeed in government, the reaction one gets from a seemingly innocuous action may take on a proportion that is disproportionately larger than the seemingly and apparently insignificant proportion of the original action.”

“Say that again in English,” said Wragg.

“The press is likely to overreact to this in a difficult manner,” said Jolly.

“Well, I don’t see what sort of negative impact could come out of this,” said Wragg. “I stopped a girl being crucified, Jolly, not a village Morris dance.”

“Would that we could stop Morris dances,” murmured Jolly.

“Anyway, you’ll see,” said Wragg. “I’m having the girl come here today for an interview.”

“You’re what!?” asked Jolly.

“I meant to tell you, Sir Jolly,” said Bob. “The Minister thought it would be a nice gesture to meet the girl, a Miss Eulalia, himself.”

“For what purpose?” asked Jolly.

“To let her show her gratitude. Shows I’m a man of the people. Caring. That sort of thing.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” asked Jolly

“Well,” said Bob, “I really can’t see how just meeting her will cause problems.”

"Ah, so this is to be a learning experience as well then," said Jolly drily.

The door opened again and the communications director poked his head in the door. “The girl from the park and a couple of her friends have arrived, Minister.”

“Excellent. If you don’t mind me asking, Apostate, since you’ve reviewed the media about this crucifixion in the park incident, what’s your take on it?”

“Well, Minister, I personally thought it was a bit of an obscene display.”

“Steady on, Apostate,” said Bob.

“Oh, I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” said Apostate enigmatically. “Anyway, it’s an interesting problem, from a communications angle. Not something you get every day.”

“Thank you, Apostate,” said Wragg. “ Just show them up would you?”

A few moments later, the door opened and Apostate ushered in Eulalia and two of her male friends from the park. It looked like the man with the sporran and whip, Wragg thought, as well as another fellow with a red beard. He felt a little uncomfortable, but decided it was nothing.

“Ah, young lady,” he said smiling broadly. “So good to see you again, and you’re looking fit and well after that ordeal earlier today. Might I introduce the Department Permanent Secretary, Sir Jollyrei Appletree, and my Personal Secretary, Bob Inder.

“Well,” said Eulalia in a Scottish accent and tone of voice that could have set ravens circling over castle turrets in a thunderstorm, “I still don’t know what you’re playing at.”

“I’m sorry?” said the Minister. “I meant, you know, after I came in and rescued you, from…” he looked uneasily at the large Scottish men beside her. She didn’t look like she needed rescuing from them at the moment.

“I think,” said Bob, “that the Minister is trying to express his satisfaction that you are in good health.

“We had permit, and everything,” said the large Scottish man with the beard.

“Aye,” said Eulalia, “and we weren’t doing anything wrong. It’s part of what we do. It’s not our fault that they gave us a permit for our crux event within sight of the motorway, is it?”

“Aye,” said the other man who didn’t have a whip with him, “we normally get assigned to more isolated areas.”

“Well it’s all over now,” said Wragg. “We’ll clear that up and nobody will have to get crucified.”

“But I wanted to,” said Eulalia.

“You what?” said Wragg.

“Aye, it’s a great experience. Physical, sensual, like.”

“Naked in a public park in Britain?”

“We had a permit,” said the Scottish man with the beard. He seemed to be there solely to emphasize this point.

“But why do naked crucifixions?” asked Wragg. “Surely there are other cultural and, er, sensual things that young people like you could be doing.”

“Oh,” said Eulalia, “we don’t just do crux. We sometimes do whippings.”

“Whippings,” said Wragg tentatively.

“Like this,” said the large man who suddenly did seem to have a whip. The man with the beard was bending Eulalia over a large armchair and taking down her dress.

Wragg looked stunned as the young woman’s body was bared in his office.

“Thank you very much,” said Bob, stepping in to salvage the situation. “I think we get the idea. And in any case, the Minister has to be in Parliament in 20 minutes.” He helped Eulalia pull her dress back up. He was pleased to note that her breasts were indeed of the satiny sort.

“Weel anyway,” said the large bearded man, “I just want to make it clear, y’ken, that we had a permit.”

“Oh, come now,” said Wragg. “We don’t give permits for these sorts of things. Britain is a decent civilized society. Just show me that alleged permit, would you. We’ll soon clear this up.”

The man handed the paper to Wragg. He read it. He read it again.

“Bob,” said Wragg.

“Yes, Minister.”

“Would you have a look at this?” said Wragg.

Bob read the permit as well. “Oh dear,” he said.


* * *


“I did warn you about repercussions,” said Sir Jollyrei.

“But that permit was issued by our department!” said Wragg.

“Indeed, Minister,” said Jolly. “We issue permits for all sorts of cultural activities in public spaces. Ladies Auxiliary Teas, cricket matches, Shakespeare in the park…”

“And apparently the crucifixion of naked young girls,” said Wragg.

“Culture is a very interesting thing, Minister,” said Sir Jolly. “Very hard to get a firm handle on, and even harder to regulate.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do about this?” asked Wragg. “If it gets out that my department routinely issues permits for crucifixions in the park, it’ll be a scandal. Profumo might have let things leak to the Russians, but he didn’t crucify naked girls.”

“No,” said Bob, “I think he was far too busy doing other things with them.”

“What was that, Bob?”

“Nothing, Minister,” said Bob hurriedly. “Anyway, I can’t see how this would get out. It’s a single incident. You did apologize to the girl for, er, rescuing her. I expect that’s the end of it.”

The press officer, Mr. Apostate, chose that moment to poke his head in the door. I think you’d better take a look at the telly,” he said somewhat urgently.

Bob turned on the TV. There was a rather attractive brunette in a severe, yet form fitting, lady’s suit. It was tailored to highlight the fact that she had a very nice bottom. “…and I think,” the brunette was saying, “that the British people will be interested to know that the Ministry of Culture and Sport has been issuing permits for these sexist and humiliating displays.”

“Who is that?” asked Wragg.

“Dr. Barbara Moore,” said Apostate. “She’s a visiting American sociology professor at the LSE.”

“Much more attractive than the professors I had at school,” said Sir Jolly.

“Did you go to the LSE?” asked Apostate.

“Good Lord, no!” said Sir Jolly emphatically. “Good point.”

The Minister switched off the TV. “I want options for how we respond to this,” said Wragg. “I mean, now the public knows we sponsor naked girls on crosses.”

“We do not sponsor them,” said Sir Jolly. “We do not even endorse them. The department merely issues a permit for a lawful activity in a public space.”

“Lawful?” asked Wragg.

“Technically,” said Bob, “there is no law specifically against crucifixion, because that would infringe on the rights of bondage practitioners.”

“Bondage practitioners?” asked Wragg. “You mean, people who tie each other up and whip each other, and…” he took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“Indeed,” said Sir Jolly. “We can’t be seen to intrude upon the bedrooms or recreation rooms of the nation.”

“And,” continued Bob, “if they state that it’s a cultural activity, its usually easier to issue the permit than to argue. We don’t really have the staff to spend time arguing. It would get in the way of client service.”

“Well,” said the Minister, “I think it’s high time to stop this. I agree with Professor Moore. I can be the Minister who took a stand for women and the decency of British society. I want draft legislation to ban this.

“If you say so, Minister,” said Jolly. “We will put together a dossier of the number of cultural events and their type, that were granted permits in the past year, and…”

“No, Jolly,” said the Minister. “I want a concrete proposal, with press release. I’m taking a stand and ending these permits, now.”

“I really must caution you on this, Minister, and advise against any precipitate action…” said Jolly

“Now, Jolly.”

“Very well, Minister,” said Jolly. “We shall, of course endeavour to do our best to fulfil your policies.”

“Thank you, Jolly,” said Wragg.


* * *


The Minister walked into his office the next morning feeling jaunty. In fact, he was humming a cheerful little tune. His driver followed quietly, carrying the Minister’s red boxes of documents from the evening before. Bob was already there waiting.

“Just put those on the desk, please, Jim,” said Wragg.

“Yes, Minister,” said the driver. The boxes were set down and the driver made his exit to wherever drivers go when they’re not actually driving the car or carrying something.

“Good morning, Bob,” said Wragg. “Lovely day out.”

“Er, yes, Minister,” said Bob, “I can see how you might say that…”

“Couldn’t be better,” said Wragg. “We’re ending the subsidy of useless old cathedrals, and ending the outdated cultural abuse of women. Lots of cost savings to the nation there.”

“I think the department actually made a bit of a profit from the permit fees for cultural events,” said Bob.

“And the department can still make those fees, just not from the crucifixion of naked girls,” said Wragg. He picked up the morning paper.

GOVERNMENT CUTS HERITAGE FUNDING: CATHEDRALS FACING BANKRUPTCY – or so the headline read.

“So it’s hit the papers already,” said Wragg. “Well, we must all bite the bullet when we’re faced with the firing squad.”

“I don’t think you can actually do the firing squad if someone is biting the bullet,” said Bob. “Anyway, I’m not sure whether they don’t think the government is the firing squad in this case, rather than tight budgets.”

“Good heavens!” said Wragg. “Did you read this? ‘Minister Wragg and this government have no plan for the preservation of culture and our heritage, said a spokesman for the Bishop of St. Alban’s. I suppose it’s a sign that he is consistent when he ends permits for certain types of lewd displays in public parks, but I would say that this move to cut cathedral funding is simply treating the crucifixion of our Lord like a fun and games crucifixion of a naked girl in a park. That’s just not on and I think serious questions about the Minister’s morality might be asked.”

“Good heavens!” said Wragg. “I actually move to stop crucifixions of young girls, and he still makes out that I’m immoral! You can't win in this country! What do you make of that?”

“I suspect equating the biblical crucifixion to the crucifixion of a naked girl might improve cathedral attendance,” said Bob.

“This isn’t funny, Bob,” said Wragg. “I’m being crucified in the press between a rock and a hard place.”

“I can see how that would be uncomfortable, Minister,” said Bob.


to be continued...
 
This is already well on its way to becoming an all-time Crux Classic - wonderful, Jolly! :liebe26:
It's very nice of you to say. I was really not sure I could pull it off. Having researched a bit (mostly by rewatching the entire series about twice in the past 3 months), I noted that each episode has to have at least two competing sub-plots that are apparently unrelated but which collide somewhere around Plot Point 1, with a crisis happening at Plot Point 2, and then you have to be clever with the resolution. I am extremely glad that people think it's working out so far.

Also noting that @old slave has reacted on the thread - keep an eye out in the next section for your cameo, old boy. ;)
 
“I think what Bob means,” said Jolly, “is that in politics, and indeed in government, the reaction one gets from a seemingly innocuous action may take on a proportion that is disproportionately larger than the seemingly and apparently insignificant proportion of the original action.”

“Culture is a very interesting thing, Minister,” said Sir Jolly. “Very hard to get a firm handle on, and even harder to regulate.”
very true statements, both

“Dr. Barbara Moore,” said Apostate. “She’s a visiting American sociology professor at the LSE.”

On leave from the University of the Virgin Martyrs in Arkansas. LSE has just slipped a few places in global rankings. It’s ability to attract the brightest and the best of elite universities has obvious faltered a bit.

“I suspect equating the biblical crucifixion to the crucifixion of a naked girl might improve cathedral attendance,” said Bob.

And another true statement. There’s a lot of truth in this story!

What fun. Keep it up, Jolly!
 
The press officer, Mr. Apostate, chose that moment to poke his head in the door. I think you’d better take a look at the telly,” he said somewhat urgently.
Madiosi-2022-002-Reportage.jpg
Bob turned on the TV. There was a rather attractive brunette in a severe, yet form fitting, lady’s suit. It was tailored to highlight the fact that she had a very nice bottom. “…and I think,” the brunette was saying, “that the British people will be interested to know that the Ministry of Culture and Sport has been issuing permits for these sexist and humiliating displays.”

“Who is that?” asked Wragg.

“Dr. Barbara Moore,” said Apostate. “She’s a visiting American sociology professor at the LSE.”
 
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