Bohemia Village Voice

The Brief in the Chief’s Office

I was called to Chief’s office at 0900 hours. My name is agent Hardman, Double Minus Zero.
I can be as nasty as the best of them, or the worst. Or is that the worst of the best? or the worst of the worst? Fortunately, the Chief’s pitbull voice barked me back to reality, away from this speculation.
“Stop swaying, Hardman. Have you been at the prescription drugs again?”
“Not for a week, Sir.”
“I see. Trying to think again, are we? Well, drop it my boy. All deep thinkers turn into heavy drinkers, you know that.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Good, now listen, Hardman. Word has come to the Department of Devious Dealings, by secret sources, that there is a plot to poison the water supply in this country.”
“You mean kill everyone, Sir.”
“Not quite, these terrorists plan to change everyones’ behaviour.”
“How?”
“They have invented a solution that turns everyone camp.”
“I thought we were all camp already.”
“No, Hardman, just the majority of politicians and civil servants.”
“And people in showbusiness.”
“Yes Hardman.”
“And office managers.”
“Yes Hardman. I suppose we should include all the effeminate occupations as well, such as teachers and social workers.”
“What about aristocrats?”
“Aristocrats are exempt from camp, Hardman, even if they are more expert than most.”
“Musicians, writers, lawyers . . .”
“Yes, Hardman, yes.”
“Accountants, directors, bankers . . .”
“Yes, Hardman, yes.”
Two hours later, both the Chief and I had exhausted all the types of people we knew indulged heavily in camp. This effectively pushed a question into my mind.
“You’re looking catatonic, Hardman, are you trying to think again?”
“Sorry, sir, a thought did occur to me.”
“Well get rid of it quick, damn your miniscule brain cells.”
“It’s just, if all these people are camp, that means camp has been a feature of peoples’ behaviour for a long time. In fact, you may say camp behaviour has been a part of this country’s heritage since time immemorial. It’s part of the interesting tapestry that makes up this country’s history . . .”
“Hardman, stop thinking this instant. You’re being drawn into namby-pamby land again.”
“Sorry Sir.”
“Firstly, the campness of our country may be widespread, but it has always been manageable. Secondly, if it did get out of hand in the past, we always imprisoned a few thousand individuals, then perhaps beat them up regularly, just to set an example. But, thirdly, these terrorists want to make the conquest of camp complete. They wish to torture our testosterone and mangle our machismo. We’ll become a nation of dithering do-gooders.”
“I thought we were already.”
“Not quite, Hardman. There are still a few who believe in the good, authoritarian virtues. Let me enlighten you further . . .”
At this point the Chief went into a lengthy exposition of the secret conspiracy, of which he was an active member, after he put on his Nazi uniform.
Then, I was told, how not only camp would be crushed, but the gibbering weirdos of the insane left would be quietly put down, er, put away somewhere. I allowed myself to be persuaded into becoming part of the secret conspiracy, even though it was illegal, immoral, and, extremely evil.
You see, I was brought up in a cosy, right-wing household. I have always felt safe around extreme right-wing types. Whereas, with camp types I just get confused, er, sort of.