The Tipping Point

Joe’s a manic depressive and he’s having an episode. His mum’s out for the day and he’s busy on the internet, looking through everything he can find on the Illuminati. Yesterday, one of the lads he scores from told him stories about how they rule the world and want us all dead and now he wants to join them so he can be a double-agent because he thinks he’s the second coming.

It became quite apparent after a few hours that these people were very elusive. He’d read up on all the conspiracy theories, there were plenty of those, but there didn’t seem to be a telephone number to call the dark masters.

Of the two businesses using their name, he called Illuminati Records first.

‘Hello, Illuminati,’ a voice said.

‘Oh, hello. I’m trying to get in touch with the Illuminati and I wondered if you had anything to do with them.’

‘Very funny,’ said the voice and then hung up.

Next, he tried the staunch protest group, DWI (Down With Illuminati). Imagining a kindred spirit, he went straight to the point.

‘Hello, I’m the second coming and I’d like to infiltrate the Illuminati in order to poison it from within – you know, as a double-agent. Do you perhaps have any contact numbers for them?’

The man on the other end told him they didn’t have their telephone number but urged him to be very careful who he talked to about what he wanted to do, wishing him luck.

Not one to be easily deterred, Joey reckoned calling his local MP should be the next step. Surely she’d know about this awful lot and want something done about them.

Luckily, Ms Denise Ashgrove MP was at her consulting suite playing solitaire on her Ipad. As she’d arrived in a good humour, her secretary thought Joey might give her a laugh, so she put him through.

Joey explained his plan and Ashgrove did find him funny, but the comedy soon wore off as she dreamt that there were other constituents that needed seeing, so she cut him off when he was going on about Africa and suggested he call his doctor’s surgery, ‘just to see if he might be able to help in any way’.

‘My doctor's a she, actually, but don’t worry - I get it. You think I’m mad, don’t you, just like in Life of Brian.’

‘Not at all, Joey. I was just trying to help.’

But he’d made his mind up – she was one of them, trying to get him back on his meds, so he thanked her for her time and hung up.

Why did she have to mention my doctor? thought Joey, clearly upset. Maybe she’s calling the surgery right now.

Joey got up and paced the room, imagining how he’d be carted off to that awful place he goes every year. Sure that his freedom had now been compromised, he rolled a few joints, gathered up his paperwork on the Illuminati and packed his shoulder bag. Before leaving the house, he scribbled a quick note for his mum – ‘gone on a mission to save the world, back in a few days’.

Standing at the bus stop, he didn’t know where to go but then a thought wriggled its way to the front of his mind. What if I was to go up to the Houses of Parliament and ask to speak to David Davis on a matter of great urgency? He seemed a nice chap and was always standing up for the vulnerable. Yes, I’ll go and see him.

Wary of being tracked and keen to re-enact any tactics he’d learnt from The Bourne Identity, Joey fished a crisp packet out of a bin, placed his phone into it and threw it in some bushes so he could collect it on his return once he’d foiled the Illuminati for good.

Joey lived for these moments of high intrigue. His illness fed upon the freshly crossed wires in his brain like a hyena grating its teeth on the ankle of a felled wildebeest. 

As he waited for the bus to arrive, the theme tune to Hawaii Five-O started up and he thought it was all part of the beautiful plan until he realised it was his phone.

Delving into the bushes, he found the crisp packet, got the phone out, saw that it was his mum calling, cursed, switched it off, plonked it back in the crisp packet and placed it under some leaves.

Poor Mum, he thought. She’s been through so much but she just won’t understand why I’ve been put on this earth. All I want to do is make her proud and that time’s come, God willing. Shit, did I just say the G-word? Breathe deeply. Everything's fine.

Ambling back to the bus stop, Joey felt supremely powerful and decided to take on the swagger of his favourite crime detective, Shoestring. He’d been hooked on those re-runs. Remembering how Mum had a soft spot for the actor, Joey smiled as he imagined coming home to a hero’s welcome. Trevor Eve would no doubt grovel at his front door for a selfie.

Having read up on the Illuminati, he knew how they operated and how they could target an individual just by what he was wearing. According to his findings, tiny microchips that could fit on the end of a needle were being embedded into all new clothing, which was why they were taking over all medium to large-sized companies. This was the reason why he was dressed in his dad’s old Rupert The Bear pyjamas and the ancient charity shop coat that reminded him of the Dresden bombings. Made in the seventies, there was no way they’d been tagged.

When he realised that he’d overlooked the provenance of his almost new black Adidas bag, he berated his stupidity by slamming it into the bin and pushing it as far down as possible. Then he thought again. Maybe I’ll need that bag for when I go into hiding if I don’t pull the plan off. So he fished it out and returned to the bushes on the other side of the railings to hide it.

Dreaming of becoming an overnight celebrity, Joey decided that the bag alone would be worth thousands once they knew to whom it belonged. People would come from miles away just to be at the spot where he started his journey to free the world of tyranny.

Oh, the proles, he said to himself. If only they’d just stand up for themselves, I wouldn’t have to forsake myself.

On the bus, Joey scanned the upper level for potential threats. There were none, so he took the seat behind the stairwell, just in case he needed to jump down. Settling into some new deliria, it dawned on him that he’d used his Oyster card to board the bus, another pathetically stupid decision on his part. 

In his mind, the major players of the Illuminati were feverishly deploying agents to capture him on the bus. He quickly decided that they would do almost anything to scupper his plan to meet David Davis, so he disembarked at the next stop and made his way onto Wimbledon Common.

Once he was sure no one was looking, he lit up one of the spliffs, walking on purposefully towards the Putney end.

Back on terra firma, walking down Putney Hill, he’d already made up his mind how to avoid his movements’ detection. Once down the hill, he bought a single ticket to Waterloo at Putney train station. Trains always made him feel important and this short journey proved no different. People stared at him quizzically, especially a middle-aged woman, so he approached her (to console her) and sat down.

‘You’re not to worry, meek one,’ he said, looking into the woman’s eyes. ‘It’ll all be over very soon.’

‘I’m only fifty-eight, you cheeky git. Now piss off.’

So Joey walked away and took a seat up the carriage, shaking his head as to why people insisted on taking things to extremes. Best try not to pity them. She knew no better, but he would save her all the same.

At Waterloo, Joey’s unique sense of importance rose dramatically as he milled through the crowd. How they feel compelled to make these tiresome journeys to jobs they detested I’ll never understand, he remarked, but soon their pitiful lives will be put right, if only I can get to that David Davis chap.

Over the bridge he walked, practicing his opening statement of intent to Mr Davis, his hands demonstrative, his voice chillingly Churchillian. He saw Mr Davis falling to his knees, crying tears of thanks, grabbing hopelessly onto his pyjama bottoms for comfort. Joey would console him, obviously, but he would have to be restrained in his kindness. No man should be seen to deserve his presence more than another.

Passing by Downing Street on Whitehall, Joey reckoned it might be worth a try talking to the Prime Minister before making contact with Davis, but then it occured to him that the PM might be in with the Illuminati.

Standing at the gates, he decided that he must risk his freedom and approach the police officer stood to attention at his post.

‘Do you think I might have a word with Mr Cameron?’ he asked.

‘And what would be your business, sir?’ replied the officer.

‘Well, that’s highly confidential so I’ll only be able to release my information once I have the Prime Minister in front of me, if that’s OK with you.’

‘Move along, please, sir.’

‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, officer,’ said Joey. ‘You see, I’m the second coming and I’ve come to save the world from the tyranny of the Illuminati.’

‘Sorry, sir, but that’s twaddle. If you don’t move along, I’ll have you arrested.’

‘Twaddle? Arrested? What on earth for? If that’s how you talk to the second coming, I dread to think how you treat ordinary citizens.’

The police officer sighed deeply. ‘Move…along...sir.’

‘Well,’ huffed Joey before shuffling off in the direction of the Houses of Parliament, which were now in sight, glistening in the distance like a mirage.

His glorious paranoia rose again to new heights as he imagined the police officer calling for surveillance on a young man wearing Rupert The Bear pyjamas over a coat and fast approaching Parliament with intent. He thought about the two remaining spliffs in his pyjama breast pocket and wondered if he should throw them in a bin, but fear of being watched stopped him from doing so as he resumed the Shoestring posture and strode on towards Parliament.

As it happened, David Davis MP was conducting an interview with the press on a sliver of grass outside, so Joey decided to wait behind the great man until the interview had reached its conclusion.

When Mr Davis went on his way, Joey raced up to him.

‘Mr Davis, hello. I was wondering if I might take a few minutes of your time. It’s of the utmost importance,’ he said.

‘You’ll have to speak to my secretary, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Davis.

‘I did, and she said I might catch you here, so here I am.’

Mr Davis winced. ‘What can I do for you?’

Joey assumed his best Churchillian pose. ‘Well, you’ll have no doubt heard of the Illuminati.’

‘Not that old chestnut. Go away before I call the police,’ said Mr Davis, hailing down and disappearing into a cab.

Joey stood still for about a minute. In that time, he had destroyed his plan and come up with a much better one. It was now obvious that Mr Davis was not his man and new measures would have to be taken if he was to save the world.

Trudging disconsolately over to the park on the other side of the Houses of Parliament, he sat down and lit a joint. It was decided that he would live here in the park as a tramp, preaching the words of the second coming to whomsoever chose to be enlightened. It may take a few years, he thought, but the message would soon spread. The Ritz would deliver fresh food and cannabis to him daily, but he would need to employ a taster. One could never be too sure.

When it started to get dark and he could no longer see what he was writing on his crumpled bits of paper, Joey started to question his new plan. His stomach was grumbling, too, and every waft of air that had something in it reminded him of good old home-cooked food so he decided that the new plan would have to be placed on hold in favour of returning to base, where he would develop his masterplan until it was foolproof. When he remembered that he’d missed The Tipping Point on telly, he berated having come at all.

He took the bus back; one to Putney, then the next to Mitcham and then another to good old Carshalton. Back at the bus stop, he scrabbled around in the dark for his phone and bag and then sauntered back home. He couldn’t think of whose pose to take on.

Opening the door, his mum came to greet him.

‘You were on the news!’ she shrieked. ‘What were you doing at the Houses of Parliament?’

‘Like you care,’ said Joey.

‘I do, now what have you been up to?’

‘I went to talk to David Davis but he’s not the one.’

‘What do you mean, he’s not the one? He’s a lovely chap. You said so yourself.’

‘Yeah, well,’ huffed Joey. ‘Looks are deceptive. I think he’s in on it.’

His mother’s face scrunched up in disappointment. ‘Is it time for a break, Joey?’

‘Oh. Get lost, Mum. You’re just like the rest of them.’

‘I’ve made your favourite.’

‘I suppose one must eat. What happened on The Tipping Point? Did they win the jackpot?’

‘Yes, son. They won the jackpot.’