If I say I’m sorry all will be forgotten by Felicity Fox

If I say I’m sorry all will be forgotten.

Once upon a time, in a country not so far away, there lived a king. Not Charles, for even his mammy doesn’t trust that one. No, his name was David. He lived in an Ivory Tower looking over the land, collecting taxes from the poor and cutting taxes for the rich. He could often be found negotiating in far off places where Human Rights were yet to flourish.

This King was a master of The Magical Art of Plausible Mendacity. With a background in Communications, he was always keen to speak to his subjects, almost tripping over himself to apologise.

For he knew that the first rule of PR, was to always, always, always comment. No comment; guilty. Speak without saying anything, ask for forgiveness without a sorry, and the less said the better; No doubt robustly supported by his army of climbers, willing Oxbridge graduates drafting and redrafting speeches and statements, communicating the Cameron message. And with a front bench of equally minded, not to mention super rich supporters, the king set about delivering his message.

He knew how to court his audience, with a mix of traditional Tory values and a little popular culture thrown in for the Liberals.

And as all good PR campaigns rely on the delivery of key and consistent messages, this is what he did.

Day after day, Newsnight after Newsnight, he spoke to his peoples about togetherness. Well, perhaps not if you were a charity foundation or a low income couple, but if you were a banker or a wealthy donor, he was speaking to you – perhaps from across the dining room table. But never a penny was spent.

He visited far off places with the promises of trade but he’d yet to meet the workers in the towns and villages north of the border. He did fly in once to speak of the Union before flying far, far away, back to the City.

He delivered a masterclass in PR tactics, launched more full investigations than NASA has launched spacecrafts and when caught in a sticky wicket, he held his hands up, or those of his companions, with plans to revolutionise the way we currently do things. More heads rolled than in Henry VIII days, and with every apology, all was forgotten.

Speaking of “we”, this happened to be one of his favourite words, never uttering the word I. I did it my way or Thatcher’s or a little bit of both. Again and again, he spoke of the deficit, the legacy he’d been left behind. His opponents called him elitist, which he certainly was not. Born and bred into a hard working class family, sorry no, that’s another story, children.

He lived in No10 and looked safe in his seat without anyone to challenge him. No schools were being built, colleges were being merged and universities were getting more expensive. All the while, the gap between the rich and the poor, and the very rich, and the super rich was widening, but the legacy of the deficit. Oh, the deficit…

Strange and uncertain times, his peoples did not rise up, but with the price of petrol they all had to stay put.

They looked to their leader who was forging friendships abroad, trade relations they call it or fashion shows, and yes, one or two PR stunts for the peoples back home, like his predecessors before him.

 

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