By brephocratic decree, during the third week of August 1973, Maxwell Erskine Sinclair arrived punctually at 9.15 ante merīdiem. His neurodivergent mother, an insipid housewife of simple, received faith, wasn't unduly pained by this newcomer to humanity; considering her uncomplicated home-birth experience a benign minor miracle (blessed by an invisible right-hand, of a masculine, fair-skinned, English speaking God). Postpartum, lying aside a psychosomatically exhausted, stertorous, manual operative husband, in a rented cerulean bedroom (unstintingly decorated with trumpery); girlishly enamoured, she fantasised happy, Disneyesque futures. Max emerged physically healthy; maturing steadily, into an attractive, comparatively cultured, ambitious young ambivert. His general condition, as remarked by casual, unenlightened observers, of great credit to humdrum parents (considering their gnawingly monotonous, socio-cultural shortcomings). Mr. Greene, Max's sprightly, wire-haired arboricultural tutor, laughed discretely, as his favourite pupil fulminated- berating a suburban council tenancy home as dowdy, & minimum-wage progenitors as prolix laggards.

"Imagine your constrictive teenage years, as the formative pruning of a staked sapling." He counselled. "You'll grow out of these provisional frustrations; teleologically blossoming, into a fine figure of a hard-working salaryman. I've no doubt."

But Max's vexatious, over-active, labouring-class encephalon, remained doggedly riddled with wholly reasonable, basic wage-slave concerns. Becoming conscious, autodidactic, awoke, capable of sustained, independent, informed, clinical cogitation, he gravely doubted the extent possible that any sufficient, or significant, degree of desirable, creative enjoyment perceived, could plausibly be achieved- by his disenfranchised ilk. Lands, freehold properties, offshore tax-havened assets, Cantillon effects, infinite re-hypothecation, family status, scope-quality of education, entrepreneurial-networking-social-mobility-opportunities, liquid capital, one's peculiar subjective relationship to, or phlegmatic influence over institutions, debatable community principals & procedures, ostensibly governing an objective legal justice systems' law enforcement; uncompromising relative civil judgments, inspired by prevailing, derived, un-scrutinised, scarcely policed, attack-dog council estate moralities, ubiquitously applied by barely literate, uncivilised, habitually irritable, rote, routine abiding, flag-waving, monosyllabic neighbours (the true meaning of life, Max deduced, was a blind, pitiless, indifferent lottery, with fellow travellers, merely winners, or purposeless losers).

"I don't agree, I don't care; quite frankly, I'm not in the least bit interested." became his catchphrase; earning him a good few playground kicking's.

Given his circumstances, he was subject to predictable oscillations; partaking in soothing, sempiternity inducing recreational drugs, along with whatever transitory sexual benevolence providentially materialised (in between days, dreaming about becoming abundantly rich, entitled, fancy-free, domiciled in toniest Fitzrovia, Mayfair, Belgravia, Knightsbridge, or Chelsea). As Max departed comprehensive school at 16, discordant penniless parents were long since rent asunder; an alcoholic father eloping with a loose, Australian demi-monde, barmaid-cum-plongeuse, abandoning Max's woefully autistic mother, marooned- a whinging, mewling dependent upon long-term, means-tested, government sickness benefits. Max succumbed; identifying as both a victim of circumstances, & an indigent prisoner of conscience. London tantalisingly offered rakes of pukka gear he coveted, but the staggering difficulty gathering tiny fractions of what he required, enervated him something rotten. As is patently obvious, it's not so much what you know, preferably whom you know; Max felt himself fatally trapped in a jam-jar full of schmucks. At home, traipsing about soliciting menial cash-in-hand piece work, even at play, stressed-out, charmless schmendricks, apportioned grief, under preposterous guises of authority (contrived, random points of principle, accompanied by comically dumb, slave mentality, moral homilies).

In crisis, Max bailed. Beating a pastoral retreat to deepest Devon: informally employed, unwillingly working upon organic farms (ideologically inspired rural tenancies, offering pick-&-mix academic, or spiritual retreats, to middle-class punters, as part of a counter-cultural business model). Max observed new-age selfishness- typically complex, well-healed, articulate, squabbling humanity; risibly opposed factions, fighting running kitchen battles, separate culinary-cooking practices dividing vegetarians from omnivores, & experienced erotoplasticity from pear shapes of financially settled, promiscuous middle-aged divorcées (all wetter than an otters pocket), bestowing liberal, undulating love, yet collapsing underneath hormonal avalanches the moment their heedless advances were resisted. Depressed, Max felt it egregious communities advertised as emancipating were memorable for their cowled, phantom heterogeneity. Susurrations of resident hippies subsisted apologetically, cogently harbouring self-debilitating guilty grudges, libido-repressing anxieties (whereas Max's notion of happy freedom was limitless sausage, pursuing unrestrained, imperturbable, self-satisfied, maundering, narcissistic consumerism); regrettably, he construed all established orders absurd, fraught with religion, or compatible fairy tales, wherein deceitful people connive, via reactionary systems of etiquette- spitefully mitigating deeply personal anthropophobiac fears, controlling hierarchical privilege & ruthlessly dominating catalysts auguring change. Counterintuitively, for sordid purposes at the rudimentary, Stygian heart of our parable, despite compelling, crystal evidence to the contrary, possessed by a modicum of expectation, Max shamanically vaticinated, that internalising 'correct attitudes' would launch him into funky oppidan purlieus, voluptuous swinging hot-spots, at a transitional point in this urban myth, where our impoverished protagonist's fortunes improve: twisting, journeying home to London, a démarche, embracing every poor post-war period character's optimal fictional destiny- to consummate the twentieth-century's, meritocratic capitalist pipedream.

Maxwell wrestled with disquieting fin de siècle fancies: parlously struggling with physiological verbs like 'exist' rather than fickle nouns- contemplating, musing upon meaningfully complex adjectives like eluethromaniacal (alongside wicked technical jargon); keeping abreast of science, technology, politics, & developments in the field of civil rights, thanks to Scabby John's transistor radio. On Ramp 3, under New Brunswick Shopping Centre, boxes once containing Zanussi Washer-Dryers & Indesit Fridge-Freezers were rigorously gaffer-taped into a tidy little duplex (t'was roomy, quasi-private, although tending to shuffle infelicitously during violent sexual intercourse). John'd long since abandoned himself to untrammeled hedonism. In practice, this took form in WH Smith narrow-rule writing pads, containing detailed encrypted notes (188-pages of menus in small printed green ink). A dozen wild ethical oysters borsch, free-range poulet de bresse casserole, untamed oxen with stewed ancient orchard plums, jugged mountain hare, seasonal treacle pudding with artisan Stilton, & big 1.5L woven wicker covered bottles of rustic Claret being favoured fantasies. John confessed to never actually eating how he'd truly wished. Once, losing his shit like a chien lunatique, he impulsively nicked seven responsibly sourced Tuna Royale sandwiches from Café Olé behind Russell Square; discreetly washing them down with a 200ml can of Pinot Grigio- unobtrusively settling down to watch his stomach swell. At the time, John's eccentric mind was warped, from ultra-assiduous study of old copies of Decanter stolen from Skoob. Back in a realer world, inspired by Orwell (over a half-century ago), his weekly indulgence remained two slices of Mother's Pride, drizzled with apple cider, & sensitively crushed, hand-gathered allium ursinum (lingering savoury tastes leaving sensuous impressions of having recently eaten).

Squarish meals were charitably delivered each week from a publicly-subsidised Salvation Army citadel, on New North Road. Enter busty Colonel McCartney, laden with tomato soup & stale cream cheese bagels, on merry, ambrosial rounds, serving Euston, Guildford Street, Lincoln's Inn, & the Strand. She took twenty minutes out, readjusting an ill-fitting brassiere & smoking cheap, yet singularly lenitive ladidas, with Max- tipping him off about a job vacancy. Government officials visited Hoxton lately to discuss the Colonel's regular bi-annual application for a refurbishment grant. These abnormally helpful civil servants, in return, beseeched a secret favour- a representative of London's rank-&-file underclass was sought, to pilot a lucrative, commercial PFI. McCartney initially broached this idea with Scabby John out of courtesy (SJ being Brunswick's senior resident), but money wasn't Scabby's master- indeed, with laudable Socratic self-awareness, he summed matters up succinctly: ''Look darling, if you provide me easy access to reem gelt, I'll drink more; & if I drink more, I'll end up punching some poor cunts head in.''

Max, however, insisted he was game; whatevs. Dreamily speculating prospective tax-free salaries complete with private grace-&-favour residences; occasion aplenty to comfortably adjust to a cosy, expatriate lifestyle, pullulating somewhere scorchingly lairy like Dubai. He tucked an ex-directory telephone number into a hip pocket. Foetor filled his nostrils, grey masonry paintwork peeled away from surrounding balmy walls; Max sensed grisly auras of pinhead mucor overhead, figuring the sooner he progressed, the better. Shooting a moue or two, nobody appeared to have overheard, save Scabby; grinning broadly as he aimlessly pissed, high into a K-Hole.

While hailstones relentlessly crashed against sheltering toughened glass, Max patiently awaited this evening's scheduled arrival of Brigadier Robert d'Alby, a mission ready pseudonym, to be relayed to Metropolitan Police, or asked of bi-curious drivers kerb-crawling this dreary strip of Goodsway. At last, a classic Bentley Continental drew close; no jaunty Aloysius Parker at its steering wheel, instead a big-bearded Brigadier (as Chauffeur), chaperoning a flighty wandervögel. Max half-opened the public telephone-box, pondering how far a weighed-in member of the Establishment should fall into disrepair. An ovoidal frame slumped onto damp pavement, its ragged silhouette awkwardly set against heavily bruised February skies; moonlight shone through fallen arches, rain spluttered from choked guttering, whilst zoonotic bats clung tightly to his tainted, cracked façade. To Max's horror, BRd'A lurched forward abruptly, clasping his shoulders; together they performed a strange, tense waltz, across several uneven, hard yards, of saturated tarmac.

"Get in the back of the motor, you cheeky bastard." BRd'A grunted through an unkempt beard. They deflected off a lamppost, stumbling, before entering obliquely into another medium of a frankly different density.

"Well hello! Do forgive the brusque reception, only this tête-à-tête's a tad hush-hush, what?"

A laissez-faire sounding catamite reclined upon cushioned seats, before gracefully placing a hard-elephantine ivory cigarette holder between shimmering lips- fulsome, succulent chops (painted sparkly black, at odds with petite proportions beautifying his wistful physiognomy). Fingers from his dainty hands were finished with glossy black varnished nails; an aubergine smoking jacket joyously covered in peach sequins, & glass beads, reflected the Bentley's interior light, in turn highlighting a lush depth of colour, stylishly swimming through its Norwegian wood-panelled, chrome-trimmed, sumptuousness of rich, deep-piled fabric. He exhaled long, measured shafts of smoke towards Max, pulling dramatically morose countenances.

"You're so much better looking than I am."

The menacingly dour Brigadier maintained a grim, celibate face of thunder. Shtum, studiously following Bloomsbury's one-way system, eventually heading west along the Euston Road. Henceforth, for the remainder of their journey, uncertainty became Max's constant, unwelcome, bewildering partner (his discomfort passively illustrated, each time this toy-boy blew smoke, or flicked his forked-tongue flirtingly in Max's direction, by fleeting, imbecilic, reflex smiles).

"So, Max Sinclair, are you in possession of knowledge?"
"I'm not sure."
"Alright son, what exactly, do you know?"
"I know I want this job. What, exactly, does it entail?"
"Oh! Various, mundane tasks. Cigarette?"

This contradictory, seedy, angelic youth, gracefully handed over a silver compact smoke-holder, which, once opened, displayed an ocellated picture of the anti-Christ, meticulously hand-painted beneath its ornately engraved lid.

"How long do we get for lunch?"
Max kicked himself for mouthing such an asshat outburst (he'd intended to ask after the strengths of whomever he was replacing).
"Wow. Are you hungry, & horny?"
"I guess so."
"Good, then it's likely you'll perform very well, my beauty."
"OK. So, what type of performance is it?"
"Criminy! Do you really need to know, now?"
"Well, not yet at least, not really."

"Good. Knowledge: all of it is purely an observable exercise of human capacity. It's but a disposition of our species, a quality allowing us to perform in any given manner, at times when such action's appropriate. Once perfected, in the dark arts of state service, presenting oneself plausibly, to the eyes of wonted people, you'll notice most 'knowledge' is safely assumed, & consequently unchallenged. A myopic, materially burdened general public's quite content with clean, blanket solutions from civil engagement wardens. As BF Skinner maintains, freedom & information are utterly illusory- stage-managed by arch-puppeteers. In the unlikely event you're faced with unmanageable journalists, Seymour Hersh types, play them with a straight bat, a sly winking disdainful sense of humour. Leave them stewing, having dramatically, with tears in your eyes honesty, announced: I deny all responsibility. I reject all criticism. I claim all credit. I walked in those places where walking was advisable. I crossed in those places when crossing was permitted. I paid, & displayed. I listened carefully. I followed faithfully. I nodded attentively. I expressed gratitude, when expressing gratitude was commended. I'm well organised, & without problems (or some such supercilious shit). Don't fret Max, you'll be rendered, cleansed, liberated from imposter syndrome, briefed, & well prepared. My authorised handler, you'll soon discover, is seeded from an alternative breed, abiding by supreme methodologies, proudly responsible for repeated, remarkable, intentional cruelty; lambasting, ostracising, or disenfranchising targeted groups, over whom, his sect cast remorseless shadows, tainting them with an indelibly negative twilight, from whence there's no earthly escape. Heed my advice Max: bite their feather pillows; just do what they tell you."

The car pulled up in Pollen Street. Max was frog-marched through doorways by the horribly gruff BRd'A, scaling four flights of steep-stairs, atop which BRd'A knocked three times upon a red door, embossed with a golden ministerial portcullis.

"Enter."

Ushering Max inside, BRd'A forcibly sat him deep down, into a grand leather-upholstered, wooden-framed, 1930's club chair (without as much as a by-your-leave); turning abruptly on his heels to exit, slamming the heavy door behind. Max heard continuous streams of automobiles outside, along this tributary between Maddox & Hanover Streets; he recognised BRd'A's finely tuned Bentley briefly join them, on its way somewhere, presumably, of the Brigadier's suspect volition. Powerful people in expensive cars, mutually strong, antagonistic, in control of jealously protected, rewarding lives- decision makers, movers, shakers, players, with stakes in this neo-liberal orgy; dilettantes, aficionados, to whom respect for tradition & related indicia held dominion, state-broadcast daily, a notional master-caste, to be idolised, & whom themselves, fundamentally, worshipped crude, mammon-esque truths.

''Maxwell Erskine Sinclair, I presume?''

Max tentatively arose, to nervously shake the slim, sleek, lazy hand of a tall, dark, fifty-something, brilliantined apparatchik, choicely clad in a bespoke salt 'n' pepper vicuña suit. Reseated, Max noticed several shiny, yet smudged gentlemen's magazines of a kind featuring photography of undraped, lascivious women, spreading waxed legs, moistly akimbo (squirreled away, beneath buff, University of Cambridge, Alumni membership renewal forms).

"Are we sitting comfortably? Good, then I'll begin."

Max gulped, part in trepidation- part in famished awe, of the beautiful, aromatic, decorative, bone china plate of partially eaten, garnished spicy vol-au-vents; precariously balanced, recklessly on the edge of Mr. Deferens impressive leather-bound, antique mahogany desk.

"In view of our population boom, knock-on effects of globalisation, unexpectedly shrill demands from London's influential Tourist Industry leaders, & not least, Great Britain's dutiful need to compete robustly within a closer union of European states, lawful executive powers, have concluded- by fair ballot might I add- that it's decidedly in society's broadest, best interests, to sterilise, tidy up, & neutralise, a large percentage of mangy surplus vagrants, unconscionably blemishing, & besmirching our hard-won, sterling reputation, & prestigious, busy thoroughfares of Her Majesty's glorious Britannic capital."