The Big Society 2 - Flogging a Dead Zebra

Life passed without serious incident both inside and outside the zoo fence for most of the week. The mynah bird public relations officer managed to extract a few morsels of support from all sections of society and also procured a life-size cardboard cut-out of the late Johnny Morris. Full page ads, showing malnourished zookeepers tied to high interest mortgages, appeared in all the tabloids except The Daily Express, who couldn’t quite see how it linked with Diana.

Donations, though, were thin on the ground. Rather than setting up ways to donate by standing order or Visa they settled on placing their hats on the grass and singing harmonies. That particular strategy didn’t last long either as a man from the council came along and pointed to the KEEP OFF THE GRASS signs. A deal was struck whereby they didn’t have to pay 157 separate fines for all the different hats on the grass. One single payment of twenty quid without receipt was, the man from the council assured, enough for the issue to disappear.

Inside the fence everyone talked about how lucky those lottery winners were. Some pictured a cocktail-sipping mummy zebra, gin-drinking gazelle and lager-lout wildebeest lazing in the sun on a Mediterranean beach by day, and enjoying the nightlife after dark. Others saw the sheep grazing high on the hills of New Zealand, springing and bleating with joy as the cool mountain breeze ruffled their L’Oreal dyed and conditioned wool. No one mentioned the penguin apart from his sister who still thought he was working in Milton Keynes and was cross he hadn’t written to her in over a week.

Many of the very young animals dreamed of winning next week’s lottery and being relocated to Disneyland, Florida where a life of playing in the sun awaited them. Older citizens, for that is what they were now allowed to call themselves, weren’t so forthcoming with positive views on this fancy new lottery and its promise of fulfilling dreams and martyrdom. Some were sure they’d heard that word martyrdom before and, from what they could remember, it wasn’t as pleasant as the advertising suggested.

When the advert was being produced for Zoo TV one young trainee gibbon inadvertently let slip he’d heard talk of martyrs on the news. Before he could utter another sound he was hustled away and presented with a winning ticket for next week’s lottery, as were the rest of his family and his fourteen Twitter followers.

Only the Western lowland gorilla and a handful of senior meerkats knew the real meaning of that word martyrdom. They decided the full truth would be too complicated for the vast majority of the animals so to make it more accessible for everyone they decided just to keep the word paradise. Those present at the meeting were so enthralled at the magnificent job they’d done they immediately passed a motion to set up a sub-committee to look into the possibility of simplifying the meanings of other words, which led to a sub-committee being set up to find suitable words that may need simplified, which, in turn, led to another sub-committee who would look for places where suitable words that may need simplified may be found. At this point the meerkat who’d been trying to keep proceedings simple and fairly official by taking minutes pointed to the clock and suggested to everyone it was time for a lie down.

One incident during the week, which at the time didn’t stir too much curiosity, involved the big cats who’d been keeping their heads down since the lottery. Everyone assumed they were sulking because none of them had a winning ticket. No sympathy passed their way. They’d been put in their place by the Jungle Alliance who’d rose to power campaigning on their Big Society manifesto. Lions might well be kings of the jungle but this big society was to be a democratic republic, except when the opportunity for a royal public holiday raised its head.

And talking of raised heads, one giraffe had wandered over to the trees behind the newly created Zone A, where all the big cats now stayed. She’d been surprised not to hear the roars and cries of beasts fighting for survival. Creeping over and threading her neck through the branches of a tree, she poked her head over a wall to get a better look. All the cats appeared to be lying asleep on the grass. She looked closer and recognised the contented smiles of well-fed cats. That’s good she thought; everyone’s getting enough of what they need. Viva the big society.

A small branch snapped on the tree at which she stood causing her insides to jump in fright. She stayed silent and held her breath. A squirrel monkey tapped her on the head and pointed to a meeting in the distance. A Western lowland gorilla and lion stood sharing a joke and a couple of play punches or two before looking as if they’d just shook on a deal.

Not a word was said as the giraffe and the monkey backed away from the wall. The giraffe thought it good that the gorilla was working closely with the cats. It made sense for security reasons. She was going to mention it to the others when she returned but discovered some good berries on the way back and forgot all about it.

As Saturday’s lotto extravaganza neared the buzz about the zoo was more than just the invertebrates still moaning about their place in the food chain. Although leader of the Jungle Alliance, and therefore newly-elected prime minister, no one questioned the huge profits the gorilla was making in his other role as largest shareholder of Gorilla Ltd. His prediction, that as long as there was food on everyone’s tables no one would mind if a little private enterprise made a few bob on the side, enhanced his reputation as revolutionary leader.

A campaign was launched along with a petition to present the gorilla a lifetime achievement award for services to the zoo. Most signed it without question as their dreams rode on the back of that hairy beast of hope. Others questioned the validity of a lifetime achievement award after only one week’s service. After all, until the formation of last week’s government the gorilla spent most of his time alone with his head in one book or another, keeping himself to himself and out of others’ business.

Zookeepers laughed when his first purchased book - The Wealth of Nations - arrived from Amazon. They expected him to tear it to shreds after watching him lose his temper one day when someone threw a Jeffrey Archer novel over the fence. He’d sat looking at Honour Among Thieves, turning pages as any real reader would, but after about thirty seconds he bellowed as loud as he could and tore that book into a million pieces then ate it. But he sat inside appearing to study his Adam Smith book intently for several weeks before ripping it to a million pieces and eating it.

Over the years he ordered many further books from Amazon, paying for them from a grant he’d received as part of a local government literacy push. On more than one occasion they sent him good recommended reads based on his previous purchases of an economic and political nature. Usually he gave them a fair go before devouring them. One day, though, he opened a surprise package and found a picture of Gordon Brown smiling up at him. He dropped the book in fright before composing himself and picking it back up, reminding himself he was always willing to try something new. But before he finished the first few pages he threw the book down with a look of disgust. After gathering himself he settled into his routine of tearing the book into a million pieces, but left a handful of pages intact at the back. He then pooed on the pile of torn pages and used the rest to wipe his bum.

By this time his literacy skills were so greatly improved he set about typing am email of complaint to Amazon, which not only captured his feeling of self-loathing and suicidal-depression that their research had thought him part of the ‘interested in Gordon Brown’ market, but also included no spelling mistakes and few grammatical errors. He closed his Amazon account and joined Audible instead.

Saturday’s sun rose at dawn, just as the gorilla had predicted, but that great ball of fire wasn’t the main talking point around the breakfast tables. Rumours had sprung up overnight of a Bonus Ball competition in which one of the lucky lottery winners could pick someone to join them on their way to paradise. Siblings rowed about who should pick who, and parents let them get on with it as they themselves dreamed of eloping, kid-free, to paradise.

The gorilla, accompanied by his white-faced gibbon assistants, planned a two hour talent show for before the lottery numbers were drawn. Over the last week the competition to get a slot on the warm-up show was, for some of the younger ones anyway, more important than a one-way ticket to paradise. Fame was just around the corner. If only they could make that first breakthrough and win Zoo Idol, they could then afford a return ticket to paradise and maybe even get to meet Simon Cowell. Everyone gathered in a delirious atmosphere at the front of the main stage.

Outside the fence an aromatherapeutic candlelit vigil was in full flow as the zookeepers tried to keep their bodies warm and minds chilled. Food, which had earlier been traded for cigarettes with the meerkats, stretched almost as far as the second row of pickets. Their condition - cold, hungry and skint but not unduly stressed – provided the opportunity for change. In an overnight coup the mynah bird public relations officer was exiled and replaced by the cardboard cut-out of Johnny Morris. It was a popular uprising with a uniting face at the helm, reminding everyone they were all in this together.