The self-propelled island problem

I was woken early one morning by a hammering on my back door.

 

I quickly rushed downstairs to find Alun waving a piece of paper excitedly.

 

“We’ve got a gig, Jed,” he said.

 

“A gig? Doing what?”

 

He handed me the piece of paper. It was a flyer for the Banjolele Orchestra of Happy Island, playing a show at the Banjolele Hall on Conservatoire Island.

 

“The Banjolele Hall,” I said, “that’s the biggest off-mainland venue for banjolele music.”

 

“I know Jed. Exciting isn’t it – they had a cancellation.”

 

“But who are the Banjolele Orchestra of Happy Island?” I asked.

 

“We are Jed. You already play the banjolele, and I can learn.”

 

“But the show’s at the end of January. You expect to become concert-level proficient in the banjolele within just over a month?”

 

“Why not Jed? It’s only the banjolele.”

 

In spite of my concerns we dedicated the next few weeks to rehearsing, and by the time of the show we had become a highly proficient banjolele two-piece orchestra.

 

The show was a great success. With over forty people in the audience the venue was filled to near-capacity. More importantly those forty including reviewers not just from the Off-Mainlander magazine, the main magazine for those of us with an off-mainland lifestyle, but also a journalist from its newly-formed rival, the F-Off Mainlander magazine, aimed at a more youthful and rebellious off-mainland audience.

 

Both reviews were insanely enthusiastic, ‘The Best banjolele music ever to be heard in an obscure off-mainland isle’ said the Off-Mainlander, while the F-Off Mainland headline read: ‘What the banjolele was invented for’.

 

The latter review was even reprinted in the mainland newspaper The Grauniad, under the heading ‘What was the banjolele invented for?’.

 

As a consequence of the positive reviews we were able to get a number of bookings, and spent much of the next few months touring the off-mainland doing gigs and concerts.

 

It seemed that for once one of Alun’s ideas was working well, improving our social life and giving us a small but steady income.

 

However, one morning I was awoken at approximately six o’clock by a gang of masked ninjas, who tied me up and dragged me outside where, I was astounded to see, another island had somehow pulled alongside ours. I was carried onto the island by the ninjas where I found Alun, similarly bound and gagged. We sat side by side while the ninjas bought us our banjoleles and then suddenly the island took off, turning round and speeding away like a boat.

 

Before long we were in the middle of the ocean, miles from civilisation, miles even from Uncivilised Island at the far end of our archipelago. It was here, when we were beyond saving and in no hope of rescue, that our kidnapper made his appearance.

 

He was a jaunty little man in his 40s, with a paper thin moustache, dressed immaculately in a fine suit. With a wave of his hand he signalled to his ninjas to set us free.

 

“Who are you?” Alun demanded, as soon as his gag was removed “and why have you brought us here?”

 

“I am Viktor McEdwards,” the man said, “owner of this island and second richest man in the world. Welcome to my island.” He made a sweeping gesture, across the vast terrain.

 

“What is this place?” I asked.

 

“It is McEdwards Island. I have, at great expense, had motors fitted to the island so that I can travel the globe and am not bound to one place. Can you imagine,” he laughed at the mere thought, “your island being bound in one place and preventing you going anywhere.”

 

“Why go to all that trouble and expense?” I asked.

 

“Why? Isn’t it obvious? It’s a tax haven. By sailing around my island is never in taxable waters for long enough to become tax-eligible, and I can make my billions without giving a penny back to wider society.

 

“Never mind all that,” Alun shouted. “Why have you brought us here?”

 

“Why? Because you are the finest banjolele orchestra in the world and I wish to entertain my guests.”

 

“What if we refuse to play?” Alun said.

“Then I’m sure you will be able to make yourself useful, feeding the sharks and such like.”

 

Having freed us from our bonds McEdwards gave us a guided tour of the island. It was much bigger than Happy Island, and unlike our home it had every conceivable facility, heated swimming pool, tennis courts, Premier League football team, and a 200-seater concert venue.

 

“Last month Radiohead played here,” McEdwards said. “I couldn’t give tickets away, it was just me and the ninjas, which is why I decided to put on a banjolele concert.”

 

“You kidnapped Radiohead?” I said, surprised that this news hadn’t reached the papers.   

 

“No, no, I paid them a small fortune. I am the second richest man in the world, remember.”

 

“Well, if you can afford to hire Radiohead, why didn’t you try to hire us for the event?” Alun said, “instead of kidnapping us?”

 

“Why? Oh, I need to give my ninjas something to do. They get bored. You’d be amazed how few evil deeds requiring ninjas a billionaire like me actually has to carry out – most of the time I get them to walk the dogs or change the filter in my pool. But don’t worry about money, I’ll pay you ten thousand mainland pounds for the event.”

“Ten thousand mainland pounds!” I exclaimed, “that’s a fortune.”

 

“We’ll do it,” Alun agreed.

 

“Good. And if the show is a success I may hire you again. We could go on a world tour without having to leave the island.”

 

Preparations for the concert began. Alun and I practised songs that would appeal to an audience of the super-wealthy and mega evil. We were treated like royalty, given caviar, champagne, chips and beans, anything we wanted, even a choice from no less than seven different types of tea, all brought to us by McEdwards’ ninjas, who also acted as butlers and general gofers in the non-ninja-combat hours of the day.

 

Eventually it was time for us to play. The concert hall was full, packed with two hundred members of the superrich, here to enjoy musical entertainment that wasn’t Radiohead.

 

The applause that greeted our opening number was rapturous. However, before we could start the second song we were interrupted by the distant sound of banjolele playing. The audience turned to see what was happening, only to see that a second self-propelled island had pulled up alongside ours.

 

“It is my rival!” McEdwards exclaimed, “Billy McEwan, the richest man in the world. He’s hired a rival banjolele orchestra for his self-propelled island and is trying to entice my elite band of tax-avoiding billionaires to his island.”  

 

Alun and I recognised the banjolele act he had hired to do his dirty work. It was the Banjolele Orchestra of Unhappy Island, namely Ned and Colin, our great rivals (see for example The Rival Island Problem and The Competition Problem).

 

The audience started to head away, enraptured by the sweet sound of banjolele coming from the rival island. Alun and I hastily broke into a popular Tiny Too song and the audience started to return. However, no sooner had we begun to play, than Ned and Colin broke into a cover of a Happy Mondays track, and the audience started to drift away again.

 

Competition for the wealthy audience became intense. We switched to our medley of Half Japanese songs, only to be topped by our rivals’ cover of Calvin Party’s greatest hits. It was some of the finest banjolele playing ever heard, but we didn’t care, all we cared about was beating our rivals.

 

We were all so engrossed in the competition for the audience, that we failed to notice that both islands had suddenly become surrounded by boats. Without warning hundreds of policemen swarmed onto both islands and started to arrest the billionaires for tax avoidance. Even the ninjas were arrested, for ninjaing without a license. We explained our ordeal of being kidnapped and paid less than Radiohead, and the police were sympathetic and promised to return us home.

 

Helpfully the chief policeman explained what happened, thus bringing this description of events to a coherent end. It seems that so engrossed did the rival islands become in out-banjoleleing each other that they drifted into the waters of the Independent State of North Mainland, who, governed by a unique political cliché of sensible people, had decided to tax billionaires, thus paying for a health service, education and free fried Mars bars for all inhabitants.

 

“Strange”, I said to Alun on the way home, “I could have sworn that the north mainland voted against independence.”

“Not in our world, Jed,” he explained, “we inhabit an unlikely alternative universe where happy endings are possible.”

 

“Thank goodness for that,” I said, “I’d hate to live in the real world. It sounds ghastly.”