Anarchy Con Man

He didn’t even get a C in his GCSE maths test, yet thirty-three year old Billy Squires is a multi billionaire. He own boats, limos, mansions, horses, girlfriend, the lot. Last year he had bought his local football team, Port Vale, and they are ten points clear at the top of the Championship and it is the end of April so they are probably going up. They will be extending the stadium to seat sixty thousand. A mainly potato, meat and potato pie and a cup of Pepsi cost £14.99 in the shops around the ground. But at least he won’t change the team colours or the team name like those tosspots at Hull and Cardiff. This thing with Port Vale is probably the only good thing about Billy, and when they win the Premiership, he will be a hero.

Billy is due in court in the morning charged with gross fraud. This is how he made his billions. He is the one who designed, manufactured and sold those fraudulent hand held bomb detectors – those boxes of cheap plastic filled with duff circuit boards, (in case anyone opens them up to check why they have never detected any bombs) with their convincing aerial sticking out the top. He has had contracts with the Saudi rulers, Iraqi councillors, Syrian kings, the lot. Thin, moustached, confused middle eastern men stand like dummies at check points and point these things at cars as they pass hoping the vehicles don’t blow up while they are stood there inspecting them. Tens of thousands men, women and children have died in bombings and suicide blasts across the middle east since Billy came on the scene. The devices have never made a sound. But the red “on” light is always showing with no apparent way to switch it off. That is unless the bomb goes off in at that particular checkpoint, in which case the crater in the road tells its own story, with the useless device lying in smithereens forty feet away. Have you seen the size of some of those craters in the road? Deary me.

Billy is sipping a bubblegum drink at his Monaco pad. His diamond i-phone rings and it is his lawyer. Billy answers with his belly overhanging his trunks. The lawyer tells him (his disgust not at all masked) that the jury have reached a verdict and he must be at court at 10 AM. A limo will be sent. A fleet of limos and a helicopter. He finishes his bubblegum drink and reaches for the servant buzzer. Prat.


Richard Portillo is sixty nine years old and has been a judge since the age of forty. He is married to a head teacher at a special school named Linda. She is an excellent cook and an even better people person. Prick anarchists would probably hate them, especially as Linda has a sister who is an honest, hardworking police woman who takes no bullshit and wears no make up. This sister had been a hippy in the 1960’s but had quickly come to loathe the free love movement. She had done LSD twice in 1964, the first time was great and she didn’t stop laughing all night and next day, but the second time she ate some she quite simply went to hell, or realised that she was already in hell that is. So she didn’t do it again. Nowadays she lobbies her local councillor to ban pornography, to no avail. Yes, between dirty stoner bong hits and smashing the state through the throwing of heavy traffic cones off the tops of tall buildings, they would probably hate their guts.

Just what is it that you want to do? We want to be free. Free to smoke all kinds of brain monging drugs and to sit in mud listening to Prodigy albums from 1991 on repeat with exceptionally bad toilet facilities. For life.

Richard the judge is a nice bloke. He loves women. He knows England is not perfect – we torture animals and bomb civilians for starters. The laws are not perfect with murderers only getting a few years and other issues, but he tries to be as fair as he can and gives each case his full attention. He knows that some people in various positions are not as honest as him but he is glad that he is in such a position with such responsibility as he considers himself good at it. That Man United have won more Premier League titles than any other team displeases him greatly. He has never been particularly good at any sport but loves his model trains. His house has a cellar that is only four feet high, yet he has built up a marvellous model railway over the years with hills and tunnels and houses from the age of the steam engine (although he also owns some modern engines as well). He descends into his cellar through a tiny hole in the kitchen which has a tidy lid. It is not obvious that the hole exists when he is up top entertaining gusts because it is covered by a neat rug. He sits down there for an hour or two on a shortened chair every evening and watches his trains trundle round. He recently converted the tracks to digital control, which means each individual train can be controlled separately. This was quite a job and took him a month to complete. He can hear the pans being moved about in the kitchen above and can’t wait to sit down with his technically ugly wife for the evening meal. By ugly I mean that she is not the type to have been seen on the cover of FHM magazine had it existed back when she was twenty-one. But to Richard she is a summer day and he also realised decades ago that there is no such thing as an ugly woman. His trains go round and round and he watches them with relish and then goes up for a delicious dinner listening to his wife with interest. Afterwards they go into the living room and switch on the TV. They never drink alcohol anymore but bring a nice cup of tea each in with them. Showing is the end of a gardening programme showing some impressive gardens in Devon that are not open to the public. “Oh how lovely.” says Linda and Richard nods his head slightly a few times, a big smile on his face. As the programme ends, they decide to watch Clive Anderson interviewing the author and ex politician Jeffrey Archer. Clive Anderson is trying to be rude and funny and to make Jeffrey look stupid and foolish. He fails to do so (and Jeffrey goes home to continue his next book which is about a rich white man who brings clean drinking water to every family in South Africa in the year 2026, just ten fictional years in the future from now.) Richard and Linda watch the show smiling, sat on the same big green sofa, the big headrest being taller than the tops of their heads. They are a thoroughly pleasant couple and have similar friends, two of which they plan on renting a boat with on the Norfolk Broads next summer.


The next morning the court assembles. Richard bangs his wooden hammer and demands calm and for the press to settle down. He is a small man and the wig looks too big on his head, the robe too big for his frame. He leans over the box at the man who conned the middle east. Richard stares at him ferociously.

Billy looks at his watch then at his lawyer and stifles a yawn. The jury re enter the courtroom and eventually the room settles down. The verdict is read and it is guilty. Billy does not look worried. He has been briefed about what to expect.

“Billy Squires you have been found guilty on the count of gross fraud, and as the tariff has been previously set in these matters you will be sentenced today. You are hereby sentenced to nine months in prison, suspended to two months, and you are to pay the fine of £500,000. Guards you might as well take him down.” spits Richard.

But as the two large guards approach an unruffled Billy placing him in handcuffs, Richard throws off his wig and hurls his gown aside. He climbs down from his throne and rushes over to the wooden rail which he leaps over landing well and then sprinting at them. Billy sees him approach at speed as he is being led slowly away to the back of the courtroom. The cameras in the shocked press box flash and the guards do not seem sure what to do but continue to lead Billy towards the doors. As Richard reaches Billy in the aisle, he starts kicking the criminal repeatedly in the back side, ankles and legs as hard as he can whilst shouting “GO ON! GET THE FUCK OUT CUNT, FUCKING SHIT ’EAD. FUCK OFF, GO ONNN!!” and then continuing to boot him, not doing much damage in his sandals and socks. Billy has a stupid wide eyed look on his fat face as his buttocks receive the kicks, his hands being held together out in front. Soon Richard stops the onslaught and stands there panting, hands shaking with emotional rage, and watching as the three men leave through the rear doors. A few shouts from outside are heard and the press are going crazy. Then he turns sharply and goes back up to his tall seat, gathers his abandoned clothing and leaves through a side door ignoring the press completely, a grimace on his face. And up in a dark corner of the balcony, Richard’s wife’s sister sits on the old, heavy wooden bench there, very quietly laughing hystericcaly to herself, a tartan flask of weak tea with no milk standing on the seat next to her.



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