| The story so far… Scottish
Enterprise’s black ops campaign against Tory attempts to discredit the agency has
been made public. Chief Executive and Harrison Ford lookalike Robert Crawford must act
fast to save his beleaguered organisation and more importantly, his job. Now read on. … Dateline: 10.30am
Friday. Location: Scottish Enterprise HQ …
Robert Crawford cut a determined figure as he strode through the atrium of
Scottish Enterprise’s HQ. His steel blue eyes narrowed dangerously as he spotted a
group of ill-dressed strangers milling around the reception desk. In mid-stride he stopped
and called over one of his subordinates.
"Who are all these civilians in shell suits?" he snapped imperiously.
Overawed to be asked a direct question by one of the most powerful men in the West - West
Central Scotland, the subordinate controlled the nervous stutter in his voice and squeaked
his reply: "They’re locals looking to get some advice on how to start a small
business."
His long athletic legs eating up the distance to the lift, Crawford issued a
barked command:
"Well, get them out of here, goddammit! This agency has just moved to
Defcon one."
10.35am, Command Central.
As the automatic blast doors swished shut behind him, Crawford
paused a moment to take in the complexity of his agency’s nerve centre. Large screens
dominated each wall, SE tracking satellites feeding in graphically depicted information
from all over Scotland. In the centre of the room, grouped around a large circular
conference table, sat his crisis control team. Already psyched by his presence, they
turned as one to watch him as Crawford made his way to his command console.
Wasting no time, Crawford sat down purposefully and addressed his team:
"Gentlemen, as of ten hundred hours this am, the agency faces its biggest
threat since the day Henry McLeish turned up unexpectedly at 2pm on a Friday afternoon to
discover we’d all fucked off early. You know the problem gentleman, give me
solutions. "
Crawford’s icy-violet peepers squinted squintily as he picked out Jimmy,
Director of Marketing.
"You first Jimmy, what have you got?" he barked as Jimmy nervously
shuffled his papers.
"Well, Mr Crawford, as of 10.15am we’ve upped production of glossy
brochures by 25%."
Crawford nodded his approval : "Good thinking Jimmy, let’s get 100,000
copies of ‘Scottish Enterprise - why we’re dead good’ out on the streets by
lunchtime."
"What, this lunchtime?" Jimmy queried : "It's just that I’ve
got time booked off to help my wife pick a new suite out at Habitat and after that we were
going to take a drive out to IKEA."
"OK, OK," Crawford snapped back "Fair enough, but just as soon as
you can eh?"
Crackling with barely contained energy levels, Crawford’s gaze raked along
the members of his crisis team.
"Come on people, give me new data! Is there’s anything else I should
know?"
The director of operations hand shot up, nervous with adrenaline, "It's
nearly 11am, isn’t it time for coffee yet?"
"Good thinking that man!" Crawford snapped back again, confident that
in this room he had mustered the best brains the British Civil Service and the defunct
Strathclyde Economic Development Department could muster "Let’s show the world
what we’re made of. But go easy on those digestives men, we’ve got a long day
ahead of us…"
2.30pm, The Chief Executive ’s office.
Angus, Director of the agency’s Office of Foreign Travel
sat uncomfortably in his chair as his Chief finished taking a ‘phone call. He was
seeing yet another side to his boss as Crawford spoke into the receiver:
"Yes Minister, of course Minister, I quite understand Minister, I’ll
fax that list of disposable scapegoats over to you right away. Bye then Minister, yes
thank you, byee. Love you."
Crawford gingerly replaced the receiver and turned his full attention on the
quaking Angus.
"There will have to be changes Angus, we have to further focus this
agency’s efforts on what’s important."
Angus nodded slowly in response, in his heart he had known this day would one
day come.
"Does this mean we’ll have to cut back on foreign travel for senior
managers?" he said barely managing to keep the quaver from his voice.
Crawford’s ultramarine ocular organs narrowed dangerously, crossed the
bridge of his nose and changed places, as he smiled indulgently at his nervous
subordinate. "Hell no! What I mean is we’ll cut back on all that economic
development pish. We’ll just massage the figures like always. And here..."
Crawford picked up a brochure from his desk, "there’s a seminar on
improving corporate communications on Antigua next week. Book us all on it!"
Angus jumped to his feet, "Right away, Mr Crawford!"
"Oh, and Angus?" Crawford allowed a small smile to play across his
finely chiselled features, "First class for me, business class for everyone else
OkeyDokey?"…..
As Angus walked along the corridors of power back to his office he looked on
indulgently as fellow senior managers packed up early to avoid the rush hour and thought
to himself, with Crawford in charge things were going to be OK. He for one wouldn’t
mind working harder to save the agency. Hell, he’d even work on Wednesdays. But not
every Wednesday obviously… |
