A Mortgage Carol

17 December 2007 | By Robert Thickett

It was Christmas Eve and chancellor Alistair Darling sat in his office in Number 11, pacing back and forth in his dressing gown, smoking a pipe. The TV was blaring and with a remote in hand he flicked between Sky, BBC and ITV News. They were all covering the same story.

“It’s the chancellor’s fault,” a destitute woman complained to camera. “I’ve been a broker for 10 years but I’ve lost my job and haven’t got enough money to keep my home. What’s he going to do about it?”

Darling chucked his pipe at the TV.

“How is it my fault,” he barked indignantly. “Next they’ll be blaming me for house prices plummeting.”

The news broadcast switched back to the studio where Jonathan Cornell, managing director of Hamptons Mortgages, was being interviewed.

“But it’s not all bad news, is it?” said the presenter. “The Bank of England slashed the base rate at the beginning of the month to 5.5%. Reports also estimate that the Bank of England has bankrolled Northern Rock to the tune of £29bn. Isn’t the government and the chancellor doing enough already?”

“Of course I am!” Darling shouted.

“The short answer is no,” Cornell responded. “The BoE and chancellor have sat back while LIBOR has rocketed and done nothing. Unfortunately, it’s unlikely that mortgage rates will come down any time soon. House prices also seem to be on a downward spiral. It’s a national disaster.”

At that, the TV went dead. Darling checked the plug.

“Christmas? Bah humbug,” he muttered under his breath.

His heart racing, he closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. When he opened them he realised the lights had gone out all over Number 11. His room had been plunged into darkness.

“Bloody Polish electricians. Miriam!” Darling bellowed.

Then he remembered that his house keeper had been given the night off for the holiday season. He stamped his foot in annoyance. Finding a candle left behind by Dennis Healey in the late 1970s, he lit it, left the office and started to walk down the corridor to bed.

All of a sudden, he heard a loud thump that seemed to emanate from the bowels of Number 11.

“What could that be?” he muttered, peering over the banister.

There was another loud thump, this time on the second floor.

“Who is it?” he said with a quiver in his voice.

Darling gripped the banister hard and stood up straight.

“Whoever you are, especially if you’re from Newcastle, I haven’t got any money,” he said unconvincingly.

There was another thump, this time from the end of the corridor. Then there was a rattle of chains and an eerie moaning. A sudden draft extinguished the candle. Trembling, he reignited it and peered into the gloom.

“I’m a black belt in karate so don’t come any closer,” Darling whispered.

As the clunk of the chains grew louder, the chancellor could make out an eerie blue glow.

Darling squealed and ran down the corridor to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. He dived under the covers and started to shake.

“You can’t keep me out,” said a smug voice from behind the door.

With a rattle of chains the blue glow surged through the door until it hung over the bottom of Darling’s bed. The chancellor peered out from under the duvet.

“Tony Blair?” he said, unable to believe his eyes.

“Yes, ’tis I, the spirit of Blair,” the ghost moaned.

“But you’re not dead. I only saw you last week - you told me to get stuffed and stop bothering you.”

“Quite true, my flesh lives on,” Blair moaned sadly. “But my political spirit has been damned to hell. A few fibs about Iraq have left me chained for eternity.”

He rattled his bling for effect.

“But why are you here? What have I done to you?” Darling stuttered. “I’m here to give you a warning, Darling,” the ghost said.

“Look, it’s like this - repent and amend your ways or a worse fate awaits you. The thin chains that drag me down will be nothing to the ones that will weigh upon you.”

“Poppycock,” Darling said. “I’ve always avoided making decisions in my department. And anyway, I’ve been in post fewer than six months. How could things be that bad already?”

“It took 10 years for the shit to stick to Teflon Tony,” Blair wailed. “It’s been less than six months and you already resemble a portable toilet at the Glastonbury Festival.

“The whole economy’s gone to pot.”

Darling shrank back in his bed.

“Fear not,” the spirit continued. “Tonight you will be visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future. They will show you the light.”

Darling looked horrified. Three briefings in one night? That was worse than Parliament.

“Will they be quick?” Darling asked.

“Oh yes, the first is on his way right now. Farewell Darling. Remember my chains - remember!”

With that, the spirit vanished.

Then there was a bright flash of light and a little grey man in a tightly buttoned suit appeared.

“BoE governor Mervyn King!” exclaimed the chancellor. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to take you to your own past, Darling.”

And with a click of King’s chubby fingers, the aged pair vanished.

They reappeared at the back of the main chamber in the Houses of Parliament. Both crept out and snuck in behind one of the backbench seats. They’d arrived in 2003 and Darling was giving a speech as transport minister.

“Why am I here?” whispered Darling. “I watch videos of myself all the time.”

“You’re here to take a look at your past,” King said. “Ducking and diving, never making a decision. As chancellor you can’t afford to do that.”

“Rubbish,” scoffed Darling. “There is always somewhere to hide.”

King sighed and shook his head.

“There’s no running tonight,” he said. “If you won’t take heed from the past, then maybe the present will have more luck.”

King disappeared. There was a flash and Darling was confronted by a tall chap with permed hair in a blue tracksuit pushing a man in a wheelchair.

“Hector Sants, chief executive of the Financial Services Authority,” Darling said. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello Darling,” Sants said with a slight lisp. “I, the Ghost of Christmas Present, have come in the form of Lou from Little Britain.

“I was told there was a bit of a kerfuffle, so here I am.”

He waved at the man in the chair.

“My friend Andy represents the eternal consumer,” Sants said.

“I want that one,” Andy said.

“Exactly,” Sants continued. “They want everything. We’ve got to guide them, but brokers are struggling when there’s so little choice.”

“That’s the Yanks’ fault,” the chancellor said defensively.

“But you played your part,” said Sants. “Look where we are now.”

Darling realised they were in a suburb. There was a big removal van outside a house. A weeping woman was loading her belongings into the back of it.

“That’s the woman who was on the TV earlier, blaming me for all of life’s ills,” said Darling.

“And who can blame her?” said Sants. “She’s lost her job as a broker, her house has been repossessed and she can no longer afford the medical treatment for her obese son, Titanic Tim.”

Titanic Tim waddled down the drive of the house. He laughed as his mother attempted to lift him into the van. She failed.

“They seem happy enough,” Darling said. “Life is hard after all.”

“And what would you know about that?” a deep Scottish voice boomed.

Darling spun round to see Sants had gone. In his place was a dark figure in a hood. The suburb had become a graveyard.

“Would you be the ghost of Christmas Future?” Darling asked nervously.

The figure nodded and pointed to an oversized grave being tended by the unemployed broker.

“Titanic Tim’s dead?” Darling whispered incredulously.

The spirit nodded.

“But I didn’t mean for this to happen. Oh Spirit, what can I do?”

The spirit walked over to him and placed a hardened hand on his back and guided him to another gravestone.

This one was untended and overgrown, forgotten. Darling realised it was his own.

“What’s this?” he said.

The spirit had thrown off its hood and cloak to reveal a large man in a military uniform, a red star on his chest.

Darling realised it was none other than Prime Minister Gordon Brown, sporting a moustache and dressed like his hero, Joseph Stalin.

“Gordon? Why are you here? Why are you showing me my grave?”

“If you think I’m taking the blame for your screw-ups, think again,” said Brown, walking slowly towards Darling, pushing him towards the grave. “Your fiscal mistakes may have been orchestrated by me, but no-one will ever know.”

With that, Brown started to laugh.

Darling fell to his knees, clutching his heart as the world started to swirl and twist around him.

“No, it can’t happen, no!” he wailed.

And with that he opened his eyes. He was back in Number 11. Light was shining through the windows.

“It’s Christmas Day! Hurrah, then I’m not too late,” he said with a smile.

He sprung out of bed and picked up the phone sitting on the bedside table. He rang 118 118.

“Hello,” he said to the operator. “I’d like the numbers for the Sky and BBC newsdesks. I’m going to give everyone a financial gift this Christmas!”

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