When You Can't Go Forward And You Can't Go Back

A Tale Of Two Georges

This is the tale of two Georges, one a kind and responsible young man with a somewhat unfortunate handicap, the other... well.

George Pendleton was the son a social worker mother Mary Smythe-Pendleton, and of a Carpenter. A jolly old Carpenter was Sam Pendleton, whose hand helped make many a comfortable home, which makes the closing chapters of George Pendleton's story all the more poignant and tragic.

The other George is heir to one of the oldest aristorcratic estates in England or Ireland, the son of Felicity Alexandra Loxton-Peacock and Sir Peter Osborne, 17th Baronet, co-founded the firm of fabric and wallpapers designers Osborne & Little. And he was not born a George, but a Gideon, having decided to change it when he was 13.

So you'll forgive me if I sometimes refer to him as the 'other George', rather than merely 'George'. It is perhaps part of the conceit of this story, that the 'other' George had somehow, by changing his name, lined himself up for all the luck and good-times, that were cosmically destined, and more justly deserved by George Pendleton.

At the local Comprehensive, George Pendleton was thought to quite excel, in comparison to the majority of his classmates for whom was predicted merely a life of alcoholism and petty crime. He was a hard worker, mostly due to the insistence of his kindly father, who insisted that he got a decent education. George was perhaps not a natural student, being far too humble and self-effacing to put his ideas forward, and not wishing to stand out from the other boys and girls, so he progressed with a quiet and steady competence, first in language then in math, and was considered one of the few boys in his year considered capable of going to university.

At a series of privately run schools, George Osborne recieved the finest education that money can buy. He was also presented with a host of private tutors, and lessons in elocution.
I should point out at this point that the educations of these two men take place many years apart. In fact, George Osborne's education at Oxford was long over by the time that George Pendleton was due to sit his final exams. By this time of course, the Conservative Party headquarters at Millbank had already been raided by angry students, the windows smashed in, Baroness Warsi and others having to escape round the back while the surprised and helpless police looked on. And it was with some degree of gloom that George Pendleton sat his A Levels, considering that he would be among the first crop of students to pay the exorbitant £9,000 a year fee, on top of rent, food and other expenses. Him and his Dad had gone over the figures many times, with his Dad merely saying, optimistically;

"Well, if you do well, you'll get a scholarship, and that will be that."

But George Pendleton's grades were merely average, and the scholarships were often snapped up by upper class twits who knew how to play the oboe and such. So, as with many fine, competent and intelligent youth of that year, George was forced to sit around his parents cramped house, meeting his penniless friends in the park, looking for a job.

George Pendleton was such an honest young man as well, you would have thought that having suffered this blow, he would have one straight to the job centre, have them cough up a little lucre, and then blown it all on beer and fags. But George was raised different from that. So while the other George was busily claiming from the tax-payer, the mortgage payments on a horse paddock at his country house in Chesire, totally nearly £100,000, as well as overpayment of chauffeur bills and two copies of a DVD of his own speech, George Pendleton was living frugally at his parents house, rarely going out except to kick a ball around with his mates. He never showed the slightest frustration, or bitterness about this situation, it was not in his nature to complain. He went out and looked for work, did odd jobs for the neighbours and so on.

Now the thing about George Pendleton is that he has slight handicap, in fact to say handicap is perhaps too strong, he had a slight problem which should not matter, really. Though he had been occasionally teased for it at school, his friends who knew of his decent nature had quickly stuck up for him, so on the whole he was never made to feel bad about it.

The problem was a tic. It might come on when nervous, or agitated, but mostly it came on for no reason whatsoever. He would simply be talking, or on the laptop, going for a run or eating a ham sandwich, then all of a sudden, a contortion across the right side of his face. The effect was not present, but it passed quickly. It might unsettle a stranger, but no-one he knew payed it any attention at all.

So when he went for a job interview at Krispy Kreme (a position he was more than qualified for) and answered the questions competently and with ease, he was doing fine, until... That tic would creep up, and he would not even notice when his face spasmed, except when a slight grimace appeared on the face of the interviewer. They might not remember much about George, but they remembered that tic, and they thought about the customers seeing that tic day after day. 'How would that reflect on our establishment?' they thought, to have a tic on display.

So while George Osborne was making budget cuts and drinking champagne, George Pendleton was getting more and more desperate. You would think he could have taken up his fathers trade of carpenter, but no, unfortunately things had rather dipped for the firm, with the recession still underway, the banks still not lending, despite the trillions of bailout money.

What is strange, is that George Pendleton was even turned away from jobs in call centres, offices and so on, where his unfortunate tic should not have mattered. Well, they might not have remembered George but they remembered that tic, and it just stuck in their mind. They saw that there were others with better qualifications, or more experience, or displaying more gusto in the interview. With all these hundreds of candidates for every single job, they didn't need to give themselves much reason, to overlook poor George.

Meanwhile George Osborned was not only flipping his tax-payer subsidised home for a profit, he was having plenty of fun on the side as well. Namely, he was visiting prostitutes after work despite being married to Frances Victoria Howell. He was mostly inclined towards the high class prossies, the ones that could speak latin and pop ping pong balls out of their lower orifices at the same time. But from time to time he would frequent a certain shady place, where he knew for a fact the girls there were kept dosed up on heroin all day, tied to a chair all night and had in fact been kidnapped from the Ukraine against their will. It gave him a certain animal pleasure to know that these poor creatures had broken long ago, and were completely enslaved to his lust at that moment. He considered it quite a thrill, and as he jaunted merrily back up to the street at 3am, he thought to himself how splendid life was that he could be in such a high governmental position, and yet sate his lower pleasures to his heart's content.

Next, something happened to George Pendleton that can only be described as 'very unfortunate'. It was doubly unfortunate because of the precise timing of these events. In a single month Sam Pendleton suffered an accident at work involving a circular saw, a work experience intern, and his shin-bone. He was put in a wheel-chair, assured that he would one day be able to walk again, just not very far or very fast. He was certainly never going to work again, said the doctor merrily, he was anyway thinking of going over to a private firm, so he wouldn't have to deal with these situation. A sputtering, irate, protesting man now, so jolly and genial before the accident, his confinement to the wheelchair had rent a hole in his heart and misery had set in.

And so it was with a cloud hanging over him that Sam Pendleton went down to the disabilities office, to claim his meagre sum, as he was sure he was entitled to.

In the interview he was asked a series of mocking and insulting questions, it was implied that he was 'faking it', or that he had intended to slice open his shinbone. Sam Pendleton, a proud man who had never done anyone any harm, lost it and he raved and shouted in rage. Somewhat frightened, the interviewer called security and had him wheeled out, still yelling and swearing. She marked his file with a big red, 'application denied' in indelible felt-tip pen.

That same week Mary Pendleton lost her job down at the social centre due to budget cuts. She didn't have much time to protest, nor would she have done if she'd had the chance. She was simply told to hand in her letter of resignation at the front desk, which she did obediently, never questioning.
When she went down to the job centre to claim her benefits the overweight case reviewer left his chair and paced around the room, he implied that she hadn't bathed recently and stank of alcohol, neither of which were true. He suggested that she'd left her job purposefully so as to doss off the state, which also wasn't true. In the end he tapped into the computer, the single word, in capital letters 'DENIED'.

There were many arguments in the Pendleton household that week, but George always slipped out the back, to sit in the park watching squirrels chase each other round and round the tree. Despite those circumstances, he was still hopeful, he considered life optimistically. He said to himeself 'troubles always pass away, and its never as bad as it seems. Even one day Dad will walk again, and Mum will have a better job even than before.'

When he came back home, his parents had finished arguing and they told him gently, but in no uncertain terms, that he would have to sign on.

He went to the job centre and after queuing for over two hours he sat in an office where the same overweight interviewer sat, rifling through some paperwork.

"Why do you think you've never had a job Mr Pendleton?"

The interviewer drew out the 'Mister', making it mocking and sardonic, as if he felt it amusing that he should have to call George by the title.

"Well... We're in the midst of a recession, so there's not a lot of work going."

"Ha!" Interrupted the interviewer "There's jobs going all right, you just have to get on your bike and look for them."

George patiently explained that he'd been looking for jobs for over a year and would put the number of applications as well over a hundred.

"A hundred, in a year? Why my boy, that's really not looking at all. You'd be searching ten times that hard if you really wanted to work."

George sat in silence, he was tempted to say something impolite, but he resisted that urge. He was brought up different from that.

"Why do you think you haven't had a job? How does the interview go?"

"Well... Its going okay, and then well... You see I have this tic, its really a small thing, but they just see that and..."

The interviewer cut him short and gave a deep, sinister laugh.

"A tic? Now I've heard everything! Well, well, well. 'I can't work because of a tic.' Oh lah-di-da. Really, my boy I've heard some excuses in my time, but really this takes the piss. Is that why your here Missssterrr Pendleton? To take the piss."

George started to say something about not having meant that, his words misconstrued, but he was cut off yet again.

"Go on! On your bike son, go and try a bit harder. They're out there all right, off your arse, on your bike! Try and cut back on the booze and fags, and maybe take a shower once in a while."
George stood up suddenly, red faced now, trembling. He swallowed down something impolite and said coldly.

"You know sir, you have been very rude to me here today."

The interviewer looked at him increduously as if a giraffe had just told him the football results. Then after a few seconds the spell was broken and he called 'Next' into the intercom.
George left the office, feeling as if he wanted to cry. The interviewer sat back in his chair and muttered to himself. What he muttered to himself was;

"Just like in training. Just do it like they taught you. Just like in training."

Just as the Pendleton family was experiencing difficulties so was the Osborne household. 'That nasty slut.' Thought the other George to himself, as he read the morning papers, the lewd and embarrassing pictures of himself spread all over it, the stories of cocaine.

"It shouldn't be allowed." He said out loud at the breakfast table. Frances Victoria Howell looked daggers at him, then drank her orange juice.

"Should be laws about it. In fact, there are. It's illegal, this." He said pointing at the paper.

"First of all, its fraudulent. Because I was never with a prostitue, and you must believe me dear, and second of all its an invasion of my right to privacy, because, though we were not doing anything untoward, nevertheless we have our right to do nothing untoward, privately."

Frances Victoria Howell gave him the most sceptical and disbelieving look it is possible to give someone. But he continued.

"And the cocaine, well, you know me dear, a double expresso sends me over the edge."

The hole he was digging got wider, and wider, and deeper and deeper.

"Just an old neighbour, just catching up, and for her... to turn this into... some way to get money? Well, it just goes to show, no-one has any decency any more."

He got up, went round the table and encircled Frances Victoria Howell's neck with arms, kissed her on the side of the face. And though she visibly grimaced, as if his touch disgusted her, he didn't seem to register it.

"You do believe me, don't you dear?"

There was an incredibly tense, long silence following his question. She sighed inwardly, knowing she was bound to this reptile for all time.

"Yes dear." She said "Just the like the voters do."

George Pendleton had to return to his parents empty handed. He told them what had transpired. His father broke a cup, apparently by accident. His mother looked teary, but kept herself together bravely. His father, in his wheelchair, not quite broken, still proud.

"Son, while you were at the job-centre, we opened a letter. It's from the council... It says, we've got to pay... Because of the extra room... A 'Bedroom Tax'."

George inquired innocently as to what that was, he wasn't much interested in the papers and so was not always up to date on the latest.

"It's a tax on the spare bedroom. What it means is... What with me losing my job, and your mum losing hers, and you no money coming in the house..."

"With our little savings, son." Interjected his mother.

"We're going to have to give up the house, and move into something smaller... For the time being."
George nodded and listened attentively.

"And what that means is," Said his Dad, struggling to get the words out "what that means, is that your going to have to find your own place to live..."

"For the time being."

"For the time being."

George knew how hard this must be for his Mum and Dad, so he gave them both a smile.

"Well, I just want to say, thanks for putting me up this last year while I've been out of school."
His mother gave a sputter of maternal emotion.

"And..." He continued "It's probably time I got out from under your feet anyway, lived my own life, made my own way and that."

"Yes son..." Said Sam Pendleton, such intense love and pride and anguish swelling in his eyes.

"And, I think things will be looking up soon, for both you and me. Who knows, maybe I'll get myself a job now and I'll be able to put both of you back up here in no time at all."

"Oh now son, you just think of yourself, number one now, make sure your okay first." Said his mother, touched beyond all belief.

"We're proud of you, son." Said his Dad.

"Your going to do great things." Said his Mum.

And so it was that George Pendleton packed up a few meagre posessions, a sleeping bag that only reached halfway down his body, that he hadn't used since childhood, a traveller's backpack with a few spare changes of clothes, meticulously washed and ironed by his Mum. Apart from that he had about £50 saved up from his odd jobs, for a rainy day.

He didn't want to spend the money for the train, so he decided to walk into the centre of the city. He didn't know why he thought to go to the city, except that he'd always had the inkling that it was where all the exciting things happened, a bit of magic lay in those ancient streets, so if it were anyplace his luck could change it would be there. It took him about six hours to get into King's Cross, at which point he stopped and had a coffee in cafe Nero, and used the internet on his phone. When he was told how much the coffee would cost, he hesitated a little, but politely didn't say anything.

'Two pound fifty' he thought. Doing some quick mental calculations, (he'd always been good at math) he thought 'that's a whole twentieth of all the money I have. If I had twenty coffees, or one coffee a day for twenty days, then I'd be penniless.'
He thought about it for a while.

'Right then, so I shall have to find a job in twenty days. You've got to have a coffee.'
Then he thought about all the other things he would need to buy. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, rent.

'Well, rent will come later, he thought to himself, I need to have a job first... Where am I going to sleep, I wonder?'

He decided to settle that matter later, he was sure that actually something would happen before then which would somehow resolve the problem.

He got right into looking for jobs. He'd printed off about fifty CVs and went around asking in various establishments if they needed any workers.

In every single establishment they said 'No they didn't.' And the reasons they said 'No they didn't' were threefold. One was, there was still a recession going on, and most places were shutting down, almost all positions were overfilled, and any particular job was likely to have dozens if not hundred of hopeful candidates.

Another reason was unfortunately for George, the fact that he had a backpack on. Even though he was neatly dressed, smelled okay and had a shave, the fact of the large backpack made them rather perversely decide to turn him down. He started to suspect this and began to think that he should find a way of leaving it somewhere where it would be safe.

The third reason was the tic again, he'd be asking for an application form and that unfortunate spasm would creep across his face once more, twisting his lip a little. From there, they quite quickly said that 'actually we don't need anyone right now.'

And so it was that George whiled away the entire afternoon, having only given in five of his fifty CVs and after all that thinking to himself that probably they had just accepted to get rid of him. But still he felt optimistic, still he felt hopeful.

It had gotten dark, and he was just thinking about going home. Then he remembered that he couldn't go home and that he didn't have a home. Eventually, a fat old tramp with twinkly eyes beckoned him under an overhang of office blocks.

"Hey mate, want to share a special brew."

After a day of being looked at suspiciously and askance, this sudden friendliness was well taken. He refused the special brew but accepted the company. It was hard to believe but the fat old tramp was a veteran soldier, he'd seen a lot of things.

"Dead bodies... Dead kids... We were told the second we got there, its not about democracy, its
about oil and corporations, thats what you're here for boys, so forget about any of that rubbish you hear on tv. All these scared people, bombed out hospitals, schools. And what for? What for I ask you? So George Osborne and David Cameron can run this bloody country into the ground, thats what for. I should have been fighting here, we shouldn't have gone to Afghanistan, we should have been here, this is where the real enemy is."

George had never been that interested in politics, but he appreciated the sound of a friendly voice, and the stories. When it got late, he settled down in his sleeping bag with some discomfort, the decrepit old veteran snooring away merrily.

George Osborne was at that moment giving a speech to the House of Commons. He was talking about the budget deficit, and how the only responsible thing to do would be to cut it. He was talking about how the Labour government had irresponsibly increased spending on poor people and sick people, and how that had ruined the economy. He talked about how the economy was in recovery, and how jobs were being created, and how there was a bright future for Britain. The thing is that everything he was saying, was a lie. He knew that he was lying. He'd seen the figures for himself and realised quite quickly that he was going to have to lie again. Not only that but the Liberal Democrats also knew he was lying. But they said nothing. They were beginning to think the Coalition was not such a sweet deal after all, but still they kept quiet. All the Conservative backbenchers knew he was lying, because they too had seen the figures. Also, the opposition knew he was lying, but they were afraid of saying anything controversial. Everyone in the House of Commons knew he was lying. And that was the problem, in the House Of Commons, they had got used to everything being lies.
Occasionally, someone would try to punch George Osborne, he'd learned to get a feel for when it was about to happen and duck at the last second. It wouldn't always be a punch, sometimes it would be a thrown egg or a glass of urine. Sometimes someone would try to run him over in their car, he'd learned to expect that too. He knew why people were trying to hurt him, he knew that he was making people's lives more difficult, more desperate. A lot of the time he flattered himself that this was his way of helping everybody, but most of the time he just didn't care.

George Pendletons first awareness of being awake was that he was soaking wet and someone was punching him in the stomach. He started like a wounded animal, looking about him in confusion. It was still dark and he was bruised and soaking wet. His bag was wet, his clothes were wet, the pavement all around him was wet. A fire truck edged along the street spraying water at high pressure into the shadows.

George Pendleton ran after it yelling;

"Do you realise what your doing?"

He could only conceive that they were making some dreadful mistake. But what he didn't realise is that the fire truck had been borrowed for the very purpose of waking up homeless people and discouraging them from sleeping rough in central London. They did this by soaking them with a high pressure hose. That is why the driver ignored him.

He returned to his bag and put it back on his back, soaking and shivering. Luckily he had the address of a drop-in-centre about a mile away where he could get a shower and a change of clothes, so he walked there.

He'd been woken up at five and the drop-in centre opened at seven thirty. He felt dreadful those two hours, numb with cold and miserable. But when he got to drop in centre he felt much better. There was a lovely old nigerian woman with a cross around her neck to welcome him in there, he had a shower in the sterile bathroom, got some new clothes. They were a lot like old man's clothes and too baggy, but he didn't mind too much. Then he got a full English Breakfast for two pound fifty, with coffee and with orange juice. He talked to a mental health worker, who told him he had just the spirit to make it and should keep on trying.

He left the drop-in-centre about midday and wandered up Oxford street. He'd had the opportunity to print off some more CVs at the centre and gave them in at high-end boutiques. One of the cashiers, a woman with orange skin, had actually laughed at him, when he went in there with his big travellers bag, his baggy shirt, his tweedy trousers. He felt like saying something impolite to her, but didn't. He just smiled and made a joke, and she smiled back.

Soon enough night-time came around again. This time he decided to sleep in Hyde park where no-one would disturb him. He'd found a bunch of fruit and veg thrown out behind a grocer's, scooped them up, and munched them ravenously in the park. He also had a burger from burger king. It was a 'whopper' for £3.79. In the end he felt it wasn't really that big of a burger when your not having anything else with it, and he was still hungry.

It was the last days of summer and sleeping in Hyde Park wasn't really all too bad. The bins were overflowing with rubbish from picnicmakers during the day. When he woke up he picked through some of the rubbish and found large quantities of food. It amazed him that people could throw away so much during a recession.

'Perhaps its only a recession for some people, and not for others.' he conjectured.

Meanwhile George Osborne and his wife were sleeping in seperate beds. It didn't really bother George too much because he'd been having an affair for quite some time, on top of the prostitutes. He was busy working on the new budget, and he was sure that it was going to be the most exciting budget ever. He had also been having some very interesting meetings with Shale Gas exploitation industry lobbyists who had assured him that he could 'almost certainly' come and work for them after he was done in politics. In the mean time they had promised to make a few public and a few private donations to the party coffers and his personal campaign fund. Elections were coming up, and he was looking forward to it. He'd been saying all the right things, making all the right moves, getting all the right pictures in the papers. Except for that prositute thing, that was unfortunate. As he worked on the budget, he thought about how it was the last few days of summer and how nice it would be to take an hour off to go walking in Hyde Park. But then he thought better of it, someone might try to punch him.

George Pendleton got told off by a dog walker for going through the rubbish that morning. He flushed a deep red and apologised immediately.

"I should think so too you little snot." Said the dog walker, a portly man with a red face, the dog was a border collie "What are you doing poking around the rubbish like a degenerate for anyway?"

"Well... I'm hungry." Said George, going even redder.

"Why don't you get a job and pay for it like everyone else then?"

George tried to explain how he'd been trying, and how he'd been soaked by a fire engine, and everyone looked at him funny because of the old man clothes and the bag, and about the tic, but the man cut him off.

"Its people like you." He said "Who are making this country go the way of the dogs."

He pronounced this with an air of finality and then sauntered off with his mutt amongst the towers of rubbish left there in the golden morning light.

This was almost too much to bear for George. He vowed to himself never to take food from the rubbish again, and to redouble his efforts to get a job that day.

He found when he got to Harrods that his CVs had crumpled in his bag during the night but handed them in anyway. The man at the cafe was impeccably polite, so much so that you would have had to be watching very closely for the slight sneer that played on his lips.

Over the next week our George would hand in CVs in almost every major street in central London, he was not able to make it back to the drop-in centre and his clothes very quickly picked up the smell of his sweat. Its not to say that this was a bad smell. Its just, you could smell him.

For food, he used up all of his remaining £50 despite doing his best to be frugal. His guilt over the portly mans chastisement and his shame over having to pick through rubbish overcame his hunger. Despite his good maths skills, he couldn't account for the fact that he'd used up £50 so quickly. Sometimes he would have nothing to do but go over in his mind the tuna sandwiches he'd bought, the cans of coke and fanta, the occasional hot cup of soup from Gregs. Somehow, this had withered and sucked up every one of the £50 he'd had on him. Sometimes he wondered, with a sigh, if it would have been better to go somewhere else, anywhere else, than to the heart of one of the most expensive cities in the world.

Without any money and not able to bring himself to go through the rubbish (the portly man's unkind words still echoed in his mind, now the idea had settled that eating from the rubbish was a heinous and despicable crime) he started to beg.

He didn't want to sit with a cup and a sign, it was too public, he couldn't bear the thought of someone seeing him and it getting back to his parents or his friends. He went up to people alone and asked them very politely and humbly if they could 'spare a little change.'

People's reactions varied.

The most often reaction was that people would shake their heads with a smile and say 'sorry I haven't got any'. They knew that they were lying, and George knew that they were lying. This wasn't a problem, it was a white lie that saved them both from embarrassment. It meant they didn't have to say 'Yes I've got some, but I don't want to give it to you.' That would have been worse, so George was grateful, and happy that he could spare them the discomfort.

One man, a meat faced man, got very agitated. He yelled at a wall "FUCKING SCROUNGERS." He yelled it in such a way, not at George, but at some abstract scroungers somewhere. He yelled at an idea.

Several people said, in tones ranging from kindliness to irritation 'Why don't you get a job?"
And then George had to start explaining his situation, but it was no good, they weren't really interested.

Its not as if no-one helped him. Someone gave him two pound with a big smile. They went away really happy and pleased with themselves. George was happy because it made him feel a little better about begging, they could feel good about it too. He wondered to himself why the world couldn't be more like that the whole time, people helping people and then feeling good about it, and the people who get helped feel good about it too. He thought about it a while then went and bought a Big Issue from the Romany lady on the corner. He read it in a coffee shop while drinking a tea he purchased with the remainder.

Some people would just look disgusted and walk away. Some people would completely ignore him. That was the worst, when people would just pretend like he didn't exist. No-one wanted to carry on a conversation for more than a minute with him, they were too busy sight-seeing, or getting to yoga, or handing in a paper and so on.

'How strange' thought George 'I'm in the middle of a city with all these people, but I've never felt so lonely in my life.'

He often thought about going to see his parents. But he knew that he couldn't. He knew that if he went back without a job it would be in some way like admitting defeat. And besides, it would distress them to think of him out in the street.

In fact he lied copiously in phone calls to spare their feelings. He told them someone was letting him sleep on their couch, though he woke up in parks, on benches and by the river. He said that he had loads of job interviews, that he was getting call backs every day, that it was only a matter of time.

It was the last days of British summer and a chill wind was starting to blow. George was given a proper sleeping bag at the drop in centre, one which covered his upper body.

The other George was at his country home in Cheshire. He looked out into the paddock, the mortgage repayments of which were serviced by taxpayers. Taxpayers like Sam Pendleton, before he had his accident. George Osborne wondered why he'd never got round to buying a horse.

He had recently been at a dinner for Neoconservatives in Washington. He liked going to America, he liked their attitude. There, amongst the finery, the champagne, the attractive hostesses and the chandeliers, a multi-billion dollar heir got to the podium and gave a long and rousing speech about self-reliance, the benefits of competition, and his pride at being American, a country where...

"...men... are self-made. There is not an American, who can truly call themselves an American, who has not made themselves. I look around this room, and I see champions, I am proud to sit here and toast with you. Real men, who have faced adversity, who have made their luck, where they find it. Who have seized opportunity, risen to the competition. Sometimes been bold, sometimes been ruthless, have said, 'I have as much right to this glory as anyone else' I will set my flag here, and with it the flag of America."

There was rapturous applause, and no-one applauded more enthusiastically nor with more shining eye than George Osborne.

Afterwards he was chatting heartily to some of the other guests, getting a little drunk, eyeing up the net-worth of those he was rubbing shoulders with, finally. He knew that later the good stuff would be rolled out, the prossies, the snuff films, the cocaine.

"After all, we deserve to enjoy ourselves, we've earned it." Said George Osborne in passing, to the inheritor of a chain of luxury hotels.

At that moment George Pendleton's luck was looking up. He'd decided to wander away from the centre where he was having no luck with a job and besides was sucking up what little cash he could beg.

His face had become a little pallid and pinched, his clothes hung more loosely around his sides, he hadn't had a chance to shave and was sprouting a yellow-orange fuzz. He looked a lot better clean shaven.

Thoughts of getting a job were beginning to diminish in his mind, and more immediate matters like food and shelter took precedence. Other considerations too, where to take a crap, where to drink water, how to take a shower, how to keep his spirits up. At this point he was still able to tell himself that this was a temporary state of affairs, and his problems would soon clear up.

So he'd decided to wander from the centre to the East, over near the docklands towards Barking. He could see Canary Wharf twinkling in the distance. He didn't even think about handing in his CVs there.

Near Barking he came across a ruin. It may have once been a part of a hospital or a pub, or housing he couldn't tell. It was clearly abandoned, the roof had caved in. Round the side someone had smashed the window, and you could climb up into it quite easily on top of an electrical service box. Awkwardy George climbed in side, pulling his bags over behind him. There was still a little daylight streaming in through the green-mossed windows, the air inside was damp and settled. Most of the rooms were soaked, wall-paper peeling, rotting floorboards from the caved in roof. But he found one dry one, dark but dry.

He lay down his rucksack, put down a few clothes as a mattress, ate a piece of fruit he'd saved. Then he got into his sleeping bag and slept soundly.

When he awoke, he didn't know what time it was. There was little light coming into his small, dark, furniture-less room. He got up, leaving his things and climbed out the window again. It appeared to be late afternoon, the sunlight was streaming over the buildings, glinting off windows. Cars drove past lazily. He'd gone in about 5 the day before. He calculated he'd been asleep to close to 24 hours.

With no idea what his next move might be, not thinking about a job, or about food, about a crap, or about thirst, about a drop-in-centre, or about his parents, he just wandered in the pleasant sunlight, the last few days of summer.

When he returned to the building it was twilight, he started to climb up to the window when he heard a cry behind him.

"Oi, what you doing?"

A very muscular man with short hair was glaring at him over his garden hedge.

"What you doing, you breaking in?" He said this as a challenge, directed with the threat of violence.

"No. Not exactly, my stuff's in there." George was too dazed to be embarassed.

"What's your stuff doing in their? That place has been empty for years." He spoke like that in short barks, questions and declarative statements.

"Well, the window was open, or at least..."

"Oh yeah, I see. I see. Your one of them squatters aren't you?"

"No, no. "

"Yeah I see. I see. You just think you can go around living in buildings without paying for it." It wasn't a question.

"Well I tell you what I think. I think you lot ARE SCUM. And, you little shit, YOU CAN KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF OF MY HOUSE."

George was so frightened he could have jumped out of his skin.

"Now you stay away from there, I'm going and I'm CALLING THE POLICE, telling them there's a break in in progress."

And with that the heavyset man trundled into his house swearing and sweating.

George ran, jumped, flew inside the building, packed up all his stuff in sixty seconds flat. Then he was out of there, running down the street with his bag bouncing on his back. The thought of being arrested in his current condition was more than he could bare. All his life he'd steered clear of trouble, then to be arrested for taking shelter? He didn't even know if it was against the law or not but it seemed plausible enough that it was. All he knew was that he didn't want to break the law. He'd been raised different from that. To be polite, respectful, not to trouble people, not to cause mischief, and not to break the law.

Silently, painfully, he wandered back into the centre. The night in the building had done good for his energy levels, but the damp air had gone to his lungs. He didn't feel quite right. He wondered if he should go to a doctor, but hadn't the faintest idea who would see him. And what if they tried to charge him money for it? He'd heard about that happening now, you go in and they ask a fee for some reason or another. No, better to let it sort itself out.

George Osborne was getting on a flight now, bound for London, where he'd go straight into a meeting with David Cameron at number 10 Downing Street.

George Pendleton was walking down the street, stopping to pet a cat 'at least this cat is friendly' he thought.

George Osborne was sipping champagne and watching the inflight movie, the movie was Avatar. He thought it was funny, though it wasn't supposed to be.

George Pendleton fell asleep sitting on a park bench. Not intending to sleep, just nodding off.

George Osborne used the bathroom, checked himself in the mirror, removed a tiny bit of basil from between his teeth. He took out a little sachet of while powder, inhaled it off the bathroom seat.

George Pendleton was woken up by someone swearing at him from a car.

George Osborne put on his safety belt as the plane touched down.

George Pendleton wandered towards Big Ben. Legs aching, stomach cramped.

George Osborne got in a chauffeured limosine from the airport. More champagne, more cocaine.

George Pendleton collapsed in a doorway, retching a little onto the side.

George Osborne did some paperwork as the city rolled by, it was five am.

George Pendleton swirled in dreamless, uneasy sleep.

It was just getting light when George Osborne got out of the chaufeured limosine saying he'd walk the few streets to number 10 Downing Street. As he did so he noticed George Pendleton's shaking, shivering form in the doorway nearby. Normally, George Osborne would have just gone on with a skip and jump, but he was a few minutes early and besides, he was feeling capersome and manic from the champagne and the cocaine he'd ingested. With a mad and sinister gleam in his eye he hopped over to George Pendleton.

"You there."

George Pendleton whose sleep had been light, opened his eyes blearily to see the arch-chancellor standing over him.

"The problem with you people," Said George Osborne assuredly "Is that you've just got everything too easy. Everywhere you go theres a benefit or a hand-down, always daddy state to look after you, always someone to moddle you and coddle you, give you things you haven't earned."
George Pendleton was unsure whether this was a dream, but either way he felt a growing sense of shame. He heard the word daddy.

"My Dad's disabled..." He managed to croak.

"There you see, it runs in familys. If the father is a dependent wastrel, then so will the son be. Like father like son. Now what I and my friends are trying to do is make it so that people like you just don't have the option, with no source of dependency to lean on, you have to pull yourself up by your bootlaces, get on, strive, compete, push yourself. Otherwise you see, you just end up lying around like this."

Something didn't seem right about this. A bubble of something, and some dysfunctional sound rose up from his belly.

"I'm sick..." He said.

"That's what you all say. Oh, I'm so poorly, oh I don't feel well. You know what my mother used to say when I was ill and didn't want to go to school? She made me go anyway. Nothing short of a doctors order would keep me from going. And I'm glad she did. It's that sort of no nonsense attitude that makes people into high achievers."

There was really something wrong with him, he retched again.

"Hmmm, alcohol. You really must learn some self-control if you ever hope to pull yourself together. I would help you, but you see it would only harm you. You live rushing from one helping hand to the next, always someone or something to make it better, from benefits office, to betting shop, to boozer. And then you wake up in a pile of your own vomit and do it all again. Never thinking about your future, never thinking about self-reliance, never thinking about work. Works not such a bad thing you know, I like my job."

George Osborne stood up and looked at the sun streaming in his face. With the sun and the champagne and the cocaine combined he really felt magnificent, almost god-like.

"I'm going to do you the biggest favour anyone can do you. I'm going to tell you the thing that will help you the most. If you take my words to heart you will really turn your life around, I'm telling you. Rely on nobody but yourself. Act on your own impetus. If someone offers you help, refuse it. Be your own man. Work hard. Don't accept anything for free. Demand nothing of the best of yourself. Take an inventory of your life, anything that you didn't earn by your own hard work, throw it away, everything but the clothes on your back. I mean it. Do this and your life can only get better. And whats more, you'll have pride."

George Osborne was a little emotional, a tear rolling down his cheek.

"And maybe think about taking a shower once in a while."

And with that he was gone.

When later in the day George Pendleton was finally able to move, he wandered in a daze over to the Waterloo Bridge. His own parents would not have recognised the hunched over, withdrawn figure, eyes glazed over, arms hanging loosely at his sides. There was no life inside anymore, just a hopeless, dreamless shell. He looked maybe twice his age.

At Waterloo bridge he took his bag and his sleeping bag and his coat and blanket and he threw them into the water. They fell down with a splash.

A chill wind blew but he didn't feel the cold.

For the next few months sightseers to Parliament Square were disturbed by the spectre of a bearded man, blank-faced and staring, who would sit for hours and hours on benches unmoving. The spectre, who looked old, but when one looked closer could see that he was barely out of his teens, got thinner and thinner.

Several tourists and local dignitaries complained of the spectre, who they found strange and creepy. There were attempts to move him on. To drive him to the edge of the city. To threaten him with fines or arrest. But always he would come back and sit there, silent and unmoving.

In autumn the first really cold days came on. There were constant rains, and near total overcast sunless days. Still the spectre remained. Then there was a week of unseasonably cold weather, where the temperature dipped below freezing every night. That's when the corpse showed up.

And because he hardly ever moved, the body was there for much of the morning without anyone noticing it. Then a local shopkeeper saw him lying there, thought to move him on. Called to him, shouted to him, yelled obscenities at him, finally gave him a kick and turned him over. Realised that this young man who appeared so old was dead and called the hospital.

Because of the central location of his dead there was an article in the Evening Standard. The article focused mostly on the horror of passers by that a man could die right there in the centre.

"I was shocked, I mean he's just there and dead. Well you don't expect it." Said Susanne, 28.

There was a slight undertone throughout the entire article, to the effect that homeless people shouldn't be allowed to die in places where members of the public might be walking around, that if it were possible to prevent this sort of behaviour by means of fines and sanctions it should be done so. The coroners noted a number of health problems and general exposure, but remarked on how strange it was that such a young man who had to all appearances been healthy just a short while before, should succumb to hunger, cold and death so quickly, especially in the middle of London, with so many people walking about. But these comments did not make it into the article, which was brief.

Sam Pendleton and Mary Smythe-Pendleton were not called upon to comment, in fact no-one from the paper bothered to track them down. It was assumed that the homeless man who had died in the cold did not have parents. At the funeral a different story was told to the friends and relatives, that he had died in a car accident, only the parents knew the truth.

The morning of the article George Osborne was drinking coffee at number 10 Downing Street shortly before another meeting with the prime minister. He had in fact picked up a copy of the Evening Standard before coming. His eyes skimmed over the headline of the article and the picture, but he did not make the connection, and his mind did not linger on the subject of the article for more than a brief second.

When it was time he stood up and greeted David Cameron who said;

"George, so good to see you. Ready to do Great Britain proud?"