It’s a difficult job being Prime Minister, or First Minister or indeed any leading position. There are always different forces acting in different directions, often causing dilemmas of choice. It must be difficult to maintain integrity, to remain honest and uphold the ideals one professes. What a shame that our leaders seem to have given up on it.
Maybe PMs have always lied. When the only news was what was in the newspapers or on the very formal radio and TV bulletins perhaps it was difficult to tell. I am sure Churchill, Macmillan, Wilson, didn’t tell the whole truth, but obvious lies were rare. Tony Blair lied about Iraq’s weapons (unless he really was demented) but otherwise was pretty honest, I think. It is thus quite a change to have three successive PMs prepared to spout absolute nonsense and pretend it is the truth. Johnson lied because it was in his nature. I don’t think he could see a difference between lies and the truth because he could never be bothered to find out the facts. Truss was and remains barmy. Sunak has, I think, learned to lie and is terrible at it. Nevertheless he has found that if you repeat a lie often enough many people will come to accept it as the truth.
Integrity seems to be lacking in Tory politicians. The number of Tory MPs suspended or sacked in recent years for misbehaviour of one form or another is quite incredible and it continues with candidates for the general election removed almost as soon as they are chosen. The Labour Party on the other hand seems to ban its people from standing for Parliament if they have ever said or done something that doesn’t fit with the current policy. Nevertheless, integrity still seems to be a struggle for some in the party.
I would have thought that an aspiring Labour politician would be very wary of businessmen (or women) offering large sums of money to help you get elected. One would expect such a politician to carefully examine the motives and background of the donor to ensure that it fitted in with Labour Party morals. Hence I have to doubt the integrity of Vaughan Gething, recently appointed Prif Weinidog (1st Minister) of the Senedd Cymraeg. Surely, accepting £200,000 from the owner of a waste business already convicted of pollution irregularities was unwise. Hence whether he has broken rules or not I cannot think he is a suitable person to lead Cymru.
Maintaining integrity is difficult. I worked for 35 years as a teacher. For about 14 of those years my only responsibility as a class (laboratory) teacher was to my own wellbeing and that of my students. It was my job to encourage their development, to give them the knowledge and skills for life, perhaps start them on the road of a career, and, of course, help them get the best exam results they could. For another ten years or so I was head of department. Now I had responsibility for my staff (teachers and technicians) and the department budget, but still not many conflicts of interest. For the remaining 11 years or so I was on the Senior Management Team. There, my responsibilities included the whole school – students, parents, staff and governors. Now there were conflicts. What to do with a disturbed pupil – did the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many. Balancing budgets, dealing with governors misconceptions of what a school was. For a short period I had aspirations to be a headteacher but I saw how those I worked with were conflicted. Their integrity was damaged as certain ideals were flung out in order to keep certain factions (particularly governors) content. Hence, I think I know a little of what it means to be a leader but still I can’t abide lies.
The topic of writing group this week was “ageing”. Should one accept it or fight it? Unless we lose our life when young as many of the troops on the D-day beaches did, then we have to face getting older. What is old? There were obviously a lot of possibilities with this topic which were taken up in various ways by members of our group. I chose a SF satire approach. A lot of what follows is “true” even though the story is fiction. None of the characters is real (not quite). I changed the title. It was going to be called “In The Court of the King” and I was going to include a joke about being up a creek without a paddle but didn’t have space.
Three Score Years and Ten
“We are delighted to welcome you to Paddle Creek, Dr. Oldman, I’m Nathan.“ The young man with the exceptionally pale, smooth skin gave me a broad smile. He did not offer to shake my hand but signalled to me to sit on the vast, low sofa. I sat, tugging down the hem of my dress to cover my knees. I’d dressed for the Caribbean but the aircon was making me shiver.
“I’m pleased to be here,” I replied, “Although I am not sure why you have a position for a gerontologist.”
The young man grimaced. “We don’t use that word here, Doctor.”
“What? Gerontology?”
He winced again. “Yes. As you no doubt know, it’s derived from the Greek for old and man. Mr Mazon does not permit any reference to ageing, old, elderly or any other such term.”
I was a little surprised. “But you offered me the post knowing my name.”
There was a flash of that smile again. “That is why you will be addressed and referred to by your title or your first name.”
“Ah, Persephone. My friends call me Percy.”
“Very well, Doctor Percy it is.”
“What is my role here if Mr Mazon isn’t interested in my work?” In truth I did not want to question my appointment too closely. They were paying me very well indeed, as well as throwing in all expenses paid accommodation on the island, and I was glad to get away from the chaos that was my life back home.
“Oh, he’s very interested in your subject area, Percy.” There was that condescending smile again. “It’s just that Mr Mazon doesn’t intend getting old or ageing and does not want to hear any reference to those er, conditions.”
“But he’s nearly seventy,” I blustered.
“Sixty-nine,” Nathan nodded.
“Then he’s bound to be experiencing some of the effects of, er, the passing years.”
“Not if he can help it. Ever since he began to make a success of his business, Alec Mazon has put money and effort into preserving his youth. Your job is to supervise that process, ensure that the various regimes that he uses are working and that he remains in tip top health.”
“I see.” It promised to be an interesting if hopeless task. Who can put off the ageing process for ever? “When can I examine him?” I said, looking forward to making a start.
The young man shook his head. “Oh, you won’t be in his presence. Mr Mazon has no contact with anyone. He occupies his villa on the other side of the island alone.” He pointed out of the vast picture window to the vista of the tropical island with the roof top of a huge mansion just visible on the horizon.
“Not even his wife?” I said, thinking, surely, he has sex from time to time.
“They are divorced.”
“Ah. So how do I supervise his state of health?”
“Mr Mazon has various sensors that he wears or are implanted which will give you a continuous readout online of all his life signs. Also, you will be supplied with blood and tissue samples at regular intervals. They are taken by a remote unit that one of his companies manufactures.”
“That’s thoughtful of him,” I said, beginning to feel a little cheeky.
“And of course you will supervise his medications and diet.”
“Medication? I thought he was well.”
“He is. These are preventative – drugs to remove senescent cells, vitamin and antioxidant supplements, telomere lengthening proteins, all that sort of thing.”
“I see.” I was beginning to understand. Mr Alec Mazon, richest man in the world, was clutching at straws by utilising every method he could find to extend his life. “And his diet; I presume it is vegan, fresh, unprocessed.”
Nathan smiled once more. “Of course. Not that he eats a lot.”
“Oh, you mean he uses calorie restriction.” Another documented method of increasing lifespan even if it did mean you were forever hungry.
“Of course, Doctor. And then there are the gene therapy procedures he undergoes from time to time to eliminate disease-causing genes from his genome. He is planning on mitochondrial replacement therapy soon to boost his energy.”
“What will I have to do?” I said. Those treatments were outside my experience.
“Oh, no need to worry. You will just have to schedule them in Mr Mazon’s diary and monitor the effects. They will also be conducted remotely.”
I wondered how Alec Mazon had time for work or pleasure with all these activities related to keeping him alive for the longest possible period.
Nathan rose from his chair. “I think that is all you need for now, Doctor. Time, I think, for you to settle into your accommodation. Here is Judah to show you the way.”
The door had opened and a young man entered the room. Judah seemed almost a clone of Nathan. They were both extremely fit and handsome young men. They looked at each other adoringly. I couldn’t imagine them keeping their hands off each other.
Judah smiled but didn’t approach me closer than two metres.
“Oh, there is one other thing I haven’t mentioned,” Nathan said. “Once a month you will supervise the donation of blood my me, Judah and our fellow employees.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I said, “Does it go to the local transfusion service?”
“Oh, no, Percy,” Nathan chuckled as if I had made a joke. “We give our blood for Mr Mazon. He has regular transfusions. We have all been chosen as we are a perfect match for his blood.”
While it was an ancient technique for restoring youthfulness borne out by modern research, it did suggest that Alec Mazon had vampiric tendencies.
Judah guided me to the door. Nathan called out “We do hope you enjoy your work here Doctor Percy.”
After a month I had settled into the routine of life on Paddle Creek Island. I wasn’t overworked. As Nathan had outlined, all I had to do was keep an eye on the monitor showing all Alec Mazon’s life signs, make sure that he was provided with the narrow range of foods that he permitted himself to eat, and ensure that he took all his drugs and supplements on time. Although I never saw him in person, on screen he or his avatar looked to be fit and perhaps not his full three score years and ten, but wealth is a good medicine, isn’t it.
It was a week after his seventieth birthday. I was relaxing in a hammock with the tablet by my side. I was jolted from my doze by an alarm. I hadn’t heard the sound before and for a moment I wondered what the noise was. Then I realised it was coming from the tablet. I grabbed it and stared in horror at the traces on the screen. Mazon’s heart rate was shooting up while the percentage of oxygen in his blood was falling rapidly. He wasn’t breathing. All his life signs were decaying. Alarms were going off all over the complex now. People, mainly handsome, young men, were running this way and that. Of course, there was no one within a mile of Mazon’s residence to get in and find out what was wrong.
By the time someone did get there it was too late. He was flatlining on every measure. When I arrived, all I could do as the resident medical expert, was pronounce him dead. Alec Mazon had choked on a Brazil nut. I hoped no one would blame me, after all my name does mean ‘bringer of death’.
………………..
ellifont 