Last Day of the Month in Nohopia: a silly story

His Most Excellent Majesty King Magnifica, absolute ruler of Nohopia, had a great liking for neatness and order. This applied, in particular, to the means by which his subjects conducted their official and business affairs. Having noted that everyone got paid on the last working day of the month, which is an arrangement that is typical of many countries other than Nohopia, he did not see why the same rule should not be extended in many other directions.

In Nohopia, therefore, contracts could only be agreed and signed on the last day of the month. Postal deliveries were only made once a month, on the final day, and the same applied to collections. In effect, that meant that if you wanted to post a letter, or pay a bill by post, you had a wait a whole month between posting it and its arrival at its destination.

Shops and banks only opened on the last day of the month, which led to enormous queues. The same applied to railway and bus stations, although trains and buses were allowed to run on other days as long as they did not carry any passengers.

Nohopia had some excellent newspapers, although they only appeared on the last day of the month, and this was also true for TV and radio broadcasters who had to cram all their programming into a single day.

King Magnifica was especially proud of his policy as it applied to schools and colleges. Having not been all that good a school pupil himself, he was sure that everyone being educated would welcome having a whole month in which to do their homework and assignments, due to the establishments being closed on all days other than the last of the month.

Weddings and funerals all had to be delayed until the month was nearly over. King Magnifica was known to be working on a plan that ensured that babies were only born on the last day of the month, but this was proving difficult to arrange. There are some things that even kings have problems with, and this was one of them.

Everyone other than His Most Excellent Majesty was fully aware that this arrangement, despite its outwardly tidy appearance, presented huge problems to the social and economic life of Nohopia. 

It therefore came as a surprise to nobody, with one prominent exception, when the economy of the country came to a crashing halt.

Another of King Magnifica’s obsessions was the construction of huge statues of himself all over the country. Of course, he did not make these statues himself, but around half the working population of Nohopia was involved in the statue-building business in one capacity or another. This was never going to be an activity that contributed to the wealth of the nation, as no other country was ever likely to want to import a statue of His Most Excellent Majesty, so the wages paid to vast numbers of people could be nothing other than a huge drain on the economy.

On the 30^th day of May, the King’s private secretary felt compelled to tell him that all was not well.

“Your Most Excellent Majesty, it’s pay day tomorrow, the 31st”, she said, “and there’s no money left in the Treasury to pay the workers. What are we going to do?”

King Magnifica thought for a moment and then came up with the perfect solution, as he saw it.

“We only pay the workers on the last day of the month. Am I correct?”

“Indeed you are, Your Most Excellent Majesty. You are always correct about everything.”

“Exactly so.”, said the King, “In that case, we will declare that tomorrow is not the last day of the month. The day after tomorrow, which would have been the 1^st of June, will therefore be the 32^nd of May, and therefore the last day. Is that not a most excellent idea?”

“Of course it is, Your Most Excellent Majesty. Your ideas cannot be other than most excellent, as all your subjects know.”

So that is what happened. Unfortunately, no money flowed into the state coffers on either the 31^st or the 32^nd, so the following day had to be the 33^rd, followed by the 34^th, 35^th, and so on. It could not have been otherwise, given that no important decisions or business dealings could be concluded on any day other than the last of the month, and if that day was not allowed to arrive, then the situation could not possibly have been resolved.

This state of affairs was clearly completely crazy, and everybody realized this, apart, of course, from His Most Excellent Majesty King Magnifica, whose statues continued to be built despite the workers having to wait even longer to be paid.

There is no knowing how long this situation would have continued had not King Magnifica fallen ill. It was on the 142^nd day of the month that he took to his bed and the 145^th when he suffered a heart attack.

His private secretary was summoned to his bedside, where His Most Excellent Majesty was propped up on pillows and looking decidedly groggy.

“I don’t understand it,” said the King. “My doctors assured me that if I kept taking my medicine I would keep my blood pressure low and avoid any possibility of a heart attack. Can you explain it?”

“I think I can, Your Most Excellent Majesty. You see, your prescription could not be renewed, due to their being no end of the month, so when your pills ran out you were given a substitute.”

“A substitute? And do you mean that these other pills didn’t keep my blood pressure down?”

“Indeed so, Your Most Excellent Majesty”, said the private secretary. “For several weeks now you have been given sugar pills that look exactly like the real ones but have no medicinal content at all. The doctors say that another heart attack is likely to occur at any time, and when it does you will almost certainly die.”

“But I’m the King!” yelled King Magnifica. “I deserve the best treatment, because I’m always right and make the best decisions for the country!”

“Maybe not always, Your Most Abysmal Majesty”.

“What did you say?” shouted King Magnifica, going very red in the face.

“I’ll repeat it”, said the private secretary. “You are a terrible King who has the stupidest ideas, and when your next heart attack arrives, which will probably be within the next five minutes, we will get a new King who might just possibly do a far better job than you. Of course, if insanity runs in the family, we might not be so lucky.”

The private secretary was not quite correct, in that the fatal heart attack arrived well within the five minutes she had estimated, but it certainly signaled the beginning of a new era in Nohopia.

The day of King Magnifica’s death was immediately declared, by his successor, to be the last day of the month.

©John Welford

Meeting of the Brotherhood

"Brothers, I hereby call this meeting of the Brotherhood of Brothers Ignored by the Bard to order. I am delighted to welcome a special guest today, but before I introduce him to you maybe it would be a good idea if some of you said a few words to give him an idea of your particular grievance. Can I start with the Brother to my left?"

“Thank you, Mr Chairman. My name is Eggslet, the result of a rare example of humour shown by my somewhat dour and gloomy Danish parents when I was born a year after my better-known brother.

“It was a huge mistake leaving me out of the play. I’d have sorted everything out in no time at all. For one thing, I’d have whisked that gorgeous Ophelia off her feet and out of Hammy’s reach, so that awful father of hers wouldn’t have spied on him and got himself killed. There are far too many nasty deaths in that play, and I’d have saved quite a few, you mark my words.

“Mind you, I’d soon have sorted Claudius out. None of that ‘To be or not to be nonsense’ from me, I can tell you. That’s one death that I’d definitely leave in.

“On the other hand, I might also have put paid to my dear brother. He’d have made a terrible king, and with me being next in line … ”

“Thank you, Brother Eggslet”, said the Chairman. Let’s move on, who’s next?”

“That’s me”, said the tough-looking guy sitting next to Eggslet. “My name’s Branwell Lear. It’s a great name, maybe it’ll set a trend for future brothers who have three sisters, who knows?

“I reckon Dad got it all wrong when he only visited his daughters after dividing the kingdom. If he’d turned up at my place with all his knights we’d have had a whale of a time, jousting, hunting, all that sort of thing. There’d have been no need for him to go bonkers and if either Regan or Goneril had caused any problems we’d have settled their hash pretty quickly.

“But Will Shakespeare chose to leave me off the cast list and we all know what happened as a result. Death and misery all over the place – who wants to go to the theatre and see that sort of thing? They can get their fill of that by watching Eastenders.”

The next Brother to speak was a suave Italian who introduced himself as Milaneo Montague, brother of Romeo.

“I should certainly have been in the play”, he said. “It was awful when Romeo topped himself, along with lovely young Juliet. I wept buckets when I heard about it.

“It was all so unnecessary. If they’d only left the wedding arrangements to me, instead of that stupid Friar Laurence, it would all have worked out so differently. I’ve got a mate who runs the perfect wedding venue just outside Verona, everything laid on – wine, cake, flowers, the lot – and all for a very reasonable price. My best man’s speech would have been wonderful, then I’d have whisked them off to start a romantic honeymoon in Sorrento with a short cruise round the Bay of Naples. They’d have loved it. If only I’d been in the play.”

“That was my problem too”, said the next in line, who gave his name as Brashlock. "Everything went wrong for my brother Shylock. We’re in the same line, namely moneylending, but he had a misguided notion about the best way of dealing with bad debts. Far too carnivorous, if you ask me. Now, if the Bard had let me give Shylock a bit of advice I’d have suggested that he adopt my vegan approach. I never demand a pound of flesh. A pound of carrots will suit me just fine, and the following day I’ll demand a pound of potatoes, then leeks and then parsnips. A different vegetable every day until I get my money back, plus interest. By the time the debtor is in the clear my larder is usually full enough not only to feed my family but allow me to stock a veggie stall in the local market. If Will Shakespeare had given me a part in his play, he could have called it The Fruit and Veg Merchant of Venice – much more wholesome if you ask me.”

“Thank you, Brother”, said the Chairman. “Before we go any further, I see that one of the Brothers is handing round a bag of sweets. Going by past experience, I would advise you all not to actually eat anything he offers you.”

“That’s a bit unfair”, said the Brother in question. “It’s months now since anyone has actually died from any of my products, which is more than be said for what my weird sisters turn out. Their death rate is starting to attract the attention of Health and Safety, which is why I reckon that the Bard should have let me have a role in their culinary offerings.”

“You see,” he continued, “those recipes of theirs, with newts’ eyes, dogs’ tongues and the rest, always lacked a certain something. They could have made it big in the world of catering if they’d only listened to their brother’s advice and got the taste balance right.

“You see it’s all very well sticking Turks’ noses and dragons’ scales into the pot – the latter are very difficult to get these days, I can tell you. Sainsbury’s hardly ever have them in stock – but where’s the seasoning? No salt or pepper, and the closest they get to herbs are yew slips and hemlock roots, which do the digestive tract do good at all.”

“I think we’ve heard enough now”, said the Chairman. “So let me introduce our guest, who I think might be able to satisfy most of you with his proposed scheme. Given that you are all ignored brothers, it is only appropriate that he should be another one. He wears flowers in his hair, he writes potted versions of his twin brother Bill’s plays, and his name is Ben Shakespeare.

© John Welford

Taxed to the Hilt: a Piece of History

Taxes! So many taxes! They make my blood boil. Will anything ever change, or will we all just go on being driven into the dirt by all these taxes?

I am a poor French peasant, trying to make a living off the land to feed my family. I have to admit that that there are others who are worse off than me – at least we’re not actually starving – but sometimes it almost comes to that. There have been food riots round here, which should have surprised nobody.

Let me put you in the picture. Nearly everyone in France is a peasant. They reckon that there are 25 million French people, of whom 23 million are peasants. Above us are the bourgeoisie, the lawyers, doctors and teachers – people with an education. And above them are the nobles, the rich ones who own the land and charge us rent to scrape a living off it.

You know what? Those nobles, the filthy rich, they don’t pay anything like the taxes that we do.

I’ll spell it out.

First of all, there’s the “taille”. You pay that if you have any property or earn any money. If you get lucky and earn enough to buy something of your own, you pay more “taille”. So where’s the incentive to better yourself, then? It’s no wonder that agriculture is so backward in this country – why buy a horse or a plough if you have to pay the government more in tax when you do?

Next in line is the poll tax. The head of the household pays this – no exemptions. Unless you’re a nobleman of course. They can find ways of not paying it. Do you know, somebody has worked out that we peasants pay eight times our fair share in poll tax and the nobles only one eighth. Where’s the justice in that?

The third tax we have to pay is the “vingtième”. That means one twentieth, and you pay it on the value of all your property, on top of the taille. Did I say one twentieth, five percent? If only that were true! One sixth would be nearer the mark! And do the nobles pay it? Do they Hell! There are all sorts of loopholes they can squirm through to get out of it.

That guy who worked out what we pay in poll tax has also calculated that the total tax bill for a peasant, however poor he might be, is around 50 percent of his income. That can’t be right and just, can it?

And do you know who has to collect these taxes for the Government? We do! We have to appoint one of our own people to go round and demand the money from all of his neighbours. Not surprisingly, this does not make him very popular, and quite often we have to gang up on somebody and force him to do it. If you’re the poor mug who gets the post you have the devil’s own job to get everyone to pay up, and if you don’t you have to pay the missing tax out of your own pocket. If you can’t do that, you go to jail.

It has been known for a group of villagers to use this as a way getting rid of somebody who they really don’t like. They make him the tax collector, refuse to pay him, and he gets sent to chokey. It’s a nasty trick, but that’s what the system does to people.

I’ve just been telling you about the taxes we have to pay direct to the Government, but that’s not the end of the miseries we peasants have to put up with. The list just goes on and on.

Have you ever heard of the “gabelle”, the salt tax? It’s a scam of the first order and the peasants are its victims. The law says that everyone over the age of eight has to buy at least seven pounds of salt from the government every year. You don’t only have to buy it, but you also pay purchase tax on top of the price. Salt is useful stuff, don’t get me wrong, but you have no choice about buying government salt. If you live near the sea you’re not allowed to use sea salt or let your cattle get salt from the marshes.

If you try to avoid the gabelle you are in big trouble. You can go to jail – thousands do every year, including children. Some people have been sent to the galleys, and some have even been hanged.

They have special people to collect this tax. They get to take a cut of the proceedings and actually pay the Government to be allowed to be tax collectors. They are nasty people, these tax farmers. I’ve heard stories about them banging on doors in middle of the night to demand payment and ransacking houses to seize anything of value they can find. There was a case in a village not far from here where one of these devils cut off a woman’s hand as she tried to keep hold of her cooking pot.

Not only do we get taxed on everything we earn and have to buy salt, but we have to pay for everything we need to do our work. There are dues to be paid for using the mill, the wine-press or the communal oven. We have to pay the landowner to use the roads and bridges, or to take our cattle through his estate.

By the way, those roads are the same ones that we are forced to keep in good repair – they call that the “corvee” – and that work time is time we can’t use to work on our farms.

And just for good measure, we have to pay tithes to the priest.

Is there justice in France? Not for the peasant, there isn’t. We can’t complain to the landlord because he’s never here – he lives in a swanky big house in town. We can take him to court, but he appoints the judge and the lawyers, so guess who wins every time?

We are the only class in France who can’t appeal against military service, which lasts for six years. We pay for the King’s wars through our taxes, then we have to fight and get killed in them.

Will things ever change? I’ve heard rumours that something might happen, but I’m not holding my breath. Will tomorrow be any different from today? It’s unlikely.

It’s time for bed. Let’s see what tomorrow brings. What’s the date tomorrow? Oh yes – it’ll be the 14^th of July, 1789.

© John Welford

Clean Up: a story

The noise of the crash in the distance sickened everyone who heard it at the railway station, because they knew it was going to happen and they could do absolutely nothing to prevent it. Several members of the railway staff also knew that they had played a part in causing the disaster which was bound to involve heavy loss of life.

The date was 10th September 1874 and the scene was Norwich railway station, which at the time was known as Norwich Thorpe. Trains left from here for Great Yarmouth on a line which was single track, although plans were well advanced towards making it double track. Indeed, the extra rails had already been laid but had not yet been inspected and approved for use. The disaster would not have occurred only a few weeks later.

Trains also arrived at Thorpe from London, and on the evening in question an express was due from Liverpool Street that would then proceed to Great Yarmouth. It was customary for the express to cross with the mail train from Great Yarmouth at Brundall, which was the next station down the line, but on this occasion the express was running a few minutes late and there was therefore the option of letting the mail proceed to Thorpe and making the express wait for it.

The communication system in use at the time was an electric telegraph, by which staff at the two stations would tell each other what the train movements were and act accordingly so that trains could cross in safety.

At 9.16 the night inspector, Cooper, who had just come on duty, went to the stationmaster’s office to get his orders. The two men were notorious for not getting on with each other, and there had been strong words between them in the past. Mr Sproule, the stationmaster, was a strict Wesleyan Methodist who never drank alcohol and who loathed what he regarded as immoral conduct on anyone’s part, and was never reluctant to tell them so.

Cooper was well known to be fond of a drink or two, although he was always perfectly sober when at work, and his flirtatious behaviour towards pretty girls was far from what Mr Sproule regarded as acceptable, as was Cooper’s habit of using colourful language when the occasion demanded it.

Mr Sproule had had a tiring day and was keen to get home. He had no intention of talking any longer to Cooper than was absolutely necessary, so when asked if he should let the on-time mail train come through he was short in his reply.

“Certainly not”, he said. “We will not have the Mail up”.

“We could delay the Express as late as 9.35”, Cooper offered, hoping to get Mr Sproule to change his mind, which was something that the stationmaster very rarely did.

“All right”, Mr Sproule snapped, as he got his hat and coat off the peg, “We’ll soon get her off”.

He glared at Cooper as he swept past him in the doorway.

“Bloody hell, you’re in a mood tonight”, Cooper muttered under his breath.

“I heard that”, said Mr Sproule, turning back. “You’d better clean up your language, Cooper. I’ll have none of that talk in my office.” And with that, he was gone.

But Cooper had got what he wanted. The stationmaster had said “All right”, so he reckoned that he was therefore authorized to have the Mail sent on from Brundall. However, that was certainly not what Mr Sproule had meant. He had also not been referring to the Mail train when he said “we’ll soon get her off”.

Cooper made his way to the telegraph office, where Robson, the young clerk, was on duty. His job was to send and receive messages to and from neighbouring stations, but he could only do this if he had a signed authorization.

Robson had not had a great deal to do, and he had been whiling away the time with four of his mates, who were on their way to the pub and had popped in to see Robson and wait for him to come off duty. They had brought fish and chips with them and were happily sharing them around and making a bit of a mess in the process.

Cooper, still smarting from his telling off by the stationmaster, saw an opportunity to pass his resentment down a level. “What a tip!” he said “You’d better clean up this office before Mr Sproule gets to see it” – although he knew that the stationmaster was no longer on the premises.

“Yes, Mr Cooper”, said Robson. “Was there something else?”

“There certainly is”, said Cooper. “Tell Brundall to send the Mail on to Norwich”. And with that he went on his way before Robson could write down the order and get Cooper to sign it.

Meanwhile, the Express from London had arrived. Parker, the day inspector, had expected the train to arrive on time and had already signed an authorization for it to proceed to Great Yarmouth. Cooper came up to him and Parker asked, “Have you arranged for the Mail to come on?”

For reasons known only to himself, Cooper said “No, certainly not. Let’s get this train away as soon as possible.” Parker then handed the authorization ticket to the driver who promptly got his train moving.

Cooper suddenly had second thoughts and went back to the telegraph office, where he said to Robson, “You haven’t ordered the Mail up, have you?”

Robson had done precisely that, as instructed by Cooper. He rushed to his telegraph instrument and sent a message to Brundall: “Stop the Mail”. The reply came back in seconds: “Mail left”.

Robson placed the original message in front of Cooper and asked him to sign it.

“I never gave you that message”, Cooper shouted. “Bloody Hell, I did not, I did not.”

“In that case”, said Robson, “Why have you come back here to cancel a message that you say you never sent?”

There was no answer to this.

They all knew what this meant.

When the trains met head-on 25 people were killed, including the crews of both locomotives. There were 73 serious injuries. This was the worst head-on collision ever to happen on the British railway system.

At the subsequent enquiry the Board of Trade inspector placed the blamed on both Cooper and Robson, the first for giving conflicting information and the second for sending an unsigned order and entertaining his friends in the telegraph office. He was also highly critical of the procedures in place for single-line working at Norwich Thorpe which could lead so easily to disaster thanks to human error.

As he said to all the people involved: “You have no choice but to clean up your act all round”.

© John Welford