Final Report...

Dear Bro. Charles [see previous] is clearly undergoing the kind of breakdown that can affect men - and women - of the cloth from time to time; when they feel their endeavours to stem the rising tide of human sin and despair are but wasted breath, when they yearn to buck it all and take to running a brothel instead, on the simple grounds of 'If you can't beat 'em, you might as well cash in.'

Dear R of Q used to say that his idea of the perfect life would be - for fifty weeks of any one year - to live a life of the most back-breaking and soul-testing penitential rigour: fed on a diet of ground brick dust, made to chant 18 hours a day, flogged regularly and - above all - be the perpetual Guestmaster of the Abbey. For the remaining two weeks, however, he would be granted a season-ticket to a New Orleans whorehouse, thence of course back to the brick dust et res alia. You could see how a fellow might keep going with such a rich and varied life, the perfect balance between sin and salvation.

Back to Bro. Charles who is clearly bone and soul weary of the mad, manic world of management consultancy in our ever declining health and social care services. (You may have read earlier that my one remaining life's ambition is to give T. Blair a public slap in the face. One suspects Bro. Charles now harbours similar apotropaic fancies. You can hear the headlines now: 'T. Blair attempts to turn the other cheek only to receive a further slap from Palladas Minor. MI5 apologise to nation for gunning down the Palladas Two. State funeral announced by Queen.')

Anyways, as a therapeutic exercise doodled in whatever restful, restorative clinic he now resides Bro. Charles has sent me the following poem expressive of his pain and torment. (Certain phrases have been altered to protect the guilty. You know who you are!)

THEY’VE GOT IT WRONG. The consultant’s final report

I'm a consultant from Bow:
And there’s not a lot I don’t know.
I’ve got graphs, I’ve got plans;
I’ve got books and fancy diagrams.

I’ve read my Demming, my Peters, my Porter,
I can quote from all the books I oughta.
I’ve read reports with long, strange names,
I know the tricks. I know the fucking games.

But my doctor says I’ve got a fatal condition.
He thinks I’ve failed in my mission.
He says I’m a twat and a jerk,
That the time has come to give up work.

He says the mess in our once great NHS
Is causing me too much distress.
And as for all that stuff in social care
He says I shouldn’t go there.

My doctor’s clever and I think he might be right,
But I’ve got plans to read and reports to write.
I’ve got policy, data and gumpf to analyse,
Tenders, contracts and project plans to finalise.

But perhaps I’ve lost the plot, perhaps he’s right.
Perhaps I shouldn’t give a fucking shite,
If what I do makes so little sense,
And when it all compounds to one great offence.

It’s time to get a life and do what I want
Breed pigs, write a book, open a restaurant,
Forget all I have learnt and all I’ve taught
And so to my last and greatest report :

I’ve call it “THEY’VE GOT IT WRONG”
Because they’ve got it wrong
Why? How? and Who?
I haven’t got a fucking clue
What? When? and Where?
I really couldn’t care . . . .

Poor fellow. He has a case of that I am sure. H too agrees of course, though as ever being the cautious companion she urges I should check whether Bro. Charles has the wherewithal to fund perpetual residence in some fancy, costly clinic as she's blowed if she'll stand by and see me spend the Church roof restoration fund on a futile attempt to find a cure!