Think Tank continued


"Stop me if I'm speaking out of turn, but sandals? Who wears sandals these days? We're all about flip-flops and knee-length khaki shorts these days. Tight tees which show off the abs."

"Good. What about a baseball cap?"

"Too American. This guy needs a world-wide appeal."

"Okay, what about the rest of his image?" asks Buck, staring wide-eyed at the rest of the room. Is anyone else going to say anything apart from these two shining stars?

"You mean the cross?" asks Nick Hibbert. Ah, the crux of the matter.

"Chart it," orders Buck, pointing at a flip-chart which is situated by the window.

Chris saunters across the room, making it clear that far from following orders, he is actually taking it upon himself to approach the flip-chart. He has a way of walking - all roll-shouldered arrogance - which reminds one of a bull mastiff. Sure you might get a lead on him, but he sure as hell would be doing the pulling.

"Okay," says Chris, "We think cross, we think David Beckham…"

The marker-pen squeaks across the embossed paper of the chart; Chris's writing is confidently scruffy, as though the attentive audience is so sure of him, they don't need conventions such as legibility in order to ascertain his point. "Any more?" he asks, pen hovering above the page.

"How about cross as in angry? You know; 'my parents are cross at me because I didn't do my homework,'" stutters Maud, or Maureen, or Mavis, or whatever the only woman's name was. She is there for appearance's sake only; her thoughts do not reach the levels of the others.

Buck makes a vague tutting sound in her general direction.

"The kids don't say 'cross' any more; they say something like: 'ma mutha has a beef with me cause I never did me H.W," says the tirelessly cool Dan Coppell. He is their interpreter, the man who rebuilds the Tower of Babel which allows these gods to understand the 'man on the street'. "Or they say 'ma momma cuss me cause I partied too hard.' There's a proliferation of faux-American phrases entering their vocabulary…"

"We're blue-skying a bit too far off-base," snaps Buck. "Let's get back to the P.O.E. D-Man."

"The point of exercise is that we think the way the kids think. We get down with their programme. Cross still sounds a little like cuss," says Dan; the D-Man, they call him. No, not demon, de- man.

"What about the Red Cross? Doesn't that bring to mind images of people wandering about with their arms and legs blown off?" says Chris Parker, a concerned look on his face.

"How can you wander about when you have no legs?" says Mabel or Margery or Melissa, or whatever that woman fancied calling herself. For our purposes, I shall call her Mildred from now on. I discern that this is what her name badge - still safety-pinned obdurately to her lapel after all these months - reads. 

"Stop this nonsense," erupts Buck. "A cross is a cross; how do you think the Red Cross got its name?"

Chris Parker's face suddenly brightens; he has plucked an idea from the very ether. He watches the bickering of the others for a moment, full of the knowledge that he will soon become the hero of the hour. "Listen; a cross brings to mind a plus sign; positivity, addition, more, more, more," he says, drawing the cross on the flip-chart. "We shorten the vertical line and make it the plus sign."

"Good, good," shouts Buck clapping his hands together like a seal. More of the beans in the bag give way and he's now basically sprawling on the wooden flooring.

"Do you know what worries me? It's this whole water and wine scenario. I don't really think that's the right message for our youngsters… Remember the Vodka Ice Creams?" asks D-Man.

The audience nod sagely.

"We all remember that particular debacle. Vodka Strawberry Skulls for Halloween. A marketing master-stroke, but for those goons at the alcohol concern charities," says Buck, a tired note creeping into his voice. He sounds like a man who has discovered never-ending life but has had to shelve the plan due to pesky health and safety laws.

"Water into fruit juice, then," says Chris Parker. He's on a roll.

"Water into a delicious, nutritious shake," says Mildred. Everyone ignores her, correctly.

"Loaves and fishes ain't right either," says D-man; he's a demon for research is D-Man. "You want your Sub-Whopper Dub-Dub these days or your Allday- Everyday PigKing…"

"What about the veggies?" asks Mildred.

"Fuck the veggies!" shouts the entire room in unison. I swear that my voice complemented Buck's dusky baritone then. Wonderful!

John Buck stands up wearing the self-satisfied smile of a man who knows that they've nearly finished the job. He pours himself another coffee and paces the room.

"One more thing we need to wrestle with; the Church has asked us for new designs for the stained-glass windows. It's all a little old-hat though. I'm thinking the Nathan Coley piece in the Turner Prize. You know the one: 'There will be no miracles here.' Big flashing plastic light-bulbs. An ironic statement."

"But the whole point is that he did perform miracles. That's the basis of the belief," says Mildred, annoyingly not getting the point.

Chris Parker ignores her: "I saw this great bit of graffiti in the toilets at the football a couple of years back. 'Jesus saves, but Van Nistelrooy nets the rebound.' We need something like that."

"Why don't we just go the whole hog and dress him in a football kit then?"

Silence; reverential silence. I knew that there was something else to Mildred. She has perception, wisdom even; or perhaps she's just been lucky. Perhaps some of the wondrous brain-power of the Chris Parkers and the Nick Hibberts of this world has rubbed off on her.

"That's not a bad idea, Mildred," says Buck, rubbing his chin. "Not bad at all. They say that football is a religion… There's something to be said for this idea."

"Do you think we'll be able to get this Ruud Van Nistelrooy character?" asks Hibbert.

"We might have to aim a bit lower than him… Have you ever thought about Les Ferdinand?"

"Nope - he was rumoured to have wrecked the Blue Peter garden when he was a youngster. We need someone more clean cut…"

"What about Gary Lineker?"

"Too wrapped up in the crisp-deal."

"Oh my God," said Chris Parker, suddenly. "I think I've got it. The Hand of God himself!"

John Buck reached for the only telephone in the room.

"Ellie? Get me Diego Maradona's agent on the phone. We have our new Jesus."  

END