And in his place now his deputy - quite a different man altogether - one Adam M’Choakumyouth. M’Choakumyouth: a man with a mission, a man with a mission statement: not to be confused with his bank statement because that was really quite extraordinarily long and his mission statement was about as short as it could be - three words to be precise - MORE FOR LESS. Which philosophy had enabled M’Choakumyouth to turn Tightfiscal into a model college, thus prompting, one cold and foggy Christmas Eve, a visit from the combined big cheeses of further education’s most esteemed governances.

Behold Tightfiscal College. The School of Gourmandising and Hotel Management to be precise. M’Choakumyouth is proudly sitting at the top table in the college’s training restaurant. Before him lie the remains of a huge turkey dinner.

On his right sits Stubbs-Grind, to his left Ward-ooge, and ranged along both sides of the table, but not actually seated at it, is the Chorus of deputy chief executives etc, all eagerly awaiting their chance to spontaneously applaud any bon mots that happen to fall from the dignitaries’ lips.

STUBBS-GRIND: M’Choakum- youth, tell me more about your restructuring programme. Give me the facts man. Facts, facts, facts. That’s what I want for Christmas.

WARD-OOGE:Humbug!

STUBBS-GRIND: What the devil do you mean by that man?

WARD-OOGE:Humbugs. The after-dinner mints. Look (taking one) I’d better have another. You never know when you might need a spare humbug.

STUBBS-GRIND: That’s as maybe. But tell me M’Choakum-youth, what have you managed to achieve on staffing levels?

M’CHOAKUMYOUTH: (beaming broadly) I think you’re going to like this Mr Stubbs-Grind sir. (He claps his hands.) Behold, our lecturing staff. (The restaurant door swings open and in stumbles a dejected-looking man in a crumpled chef’s hat and gingham trousers. His hands are piled high with books and papers, pots and dishes. A full range of cooking implements protrude from his pockets plus a large number of other tools of his trade such as reports, agendas, checklists, policy documents, fees forms, withdrawal forms and every other kind of form his many managers can devise. From beneath one arm projects a huge magnum of champagne and from the other an ice bucket of similarly gargantuan proportions.) STUBBS-GRIND: Oh, excellent M’Choakumyouth. Excellent.

WARD-OOGE:(covetously eyeing the magnum) My sentiments exactly.

M’CHOAKUMYOUTH: First ‘ee cooks it. Then ‘ee serves it. Then ‘ee washes it up. And in between times (he claps a second time) ‘ee instructs the client group. (The door opens again to admit a small portion of the said client-group - two of them to be precise - tender of years, acned of face, each carrying a silver salver on which stands a steaming plum duff. They proceed to the table, dump their burdens, and then invite Cratchit to tick a box on a card besides which is written: CAN CARRY IN DUFF WITHOUT FALLING OVER THE FURNITURE.) STUBBS-GRIND: Well, I have to admit your staffing levels are admirable, but what about your retention rates? What about your staff-client-group ratios? Our print-outs show you’re claiming for 150 of the beggars, but so far I’ve only seen these two.

M’CHOAKUMYOUTH: (with a twinkle in his eye) I’m sure we can oblige you on that score too sir. (He reaches across and draws back a large curtain. A huge interior room is revealed, packed to the rafters with writhing bodies. Two distinct layers can be discerned, and trampled on the floor beneath the bottom one, the empty shells of a dozen computers from which all the works have long since been stolen.) Here’s where we keep the other 148 of ‘em Mr Stubbs-Grind sir. Tightfiscal’s very own flexible-learning centre. (His tone noticeably sharpens.) Go on then Cratchit, don’t just stand there. Facilitate man, facilitate.

CRATCHIT: (running forwards) Yes sir, of course, sir. (He begins furiously ticking boxes as the vast throng treads around the room in a meaningless melee.) STUBBS-GRIND: You are to be congratulated M’Choakumyouth. A staff-client-group ratio of 150 to one. That’s even better than Bedford College.

WARD-OOGE:And if Tightfiscal can do it, the others can too. Cratchit, I trust you are happy in your work?

CRATCHIT: Well sir . . .

WARD-OOGE:. . . because you wouldn’t want to end up like this would you? (He reaches beneath the table to produce an old mongrel, takes it to the door and boots it into the chill afternoon air.) STUBBS-GRIND: What the devil . . . ?

WARD-OOGE:(not at all discomfited) That’s my old-fashioned socialist Dogma. I used to be his owner and he still follows me everywhere. He can’t seem to get out of the habit. So every now and then I take him outside and give him a good kicking. Now Cratchit, get this Bollinger open before we all die of thirst.

CRATCHIT: I, I want more sir.

WARD-OOGE:(his waistband visibly expanding to encompass his indignation) More? More? You want more?

STUBBS-GRIND: (helpfully) Perhaps he means more students. Or more hours to teach.

WARD-OOGE:Now then. That’s more like it.

CRATCHIT: Actually, if you please sir . . . I’d like more holiday. Perhaps just Christmas Day?

WARD-OOGE:(incredulously, lowering his glass) Christmas Day! Humbug! (He is in such a rage he swallows three of them in rapid succession.) Christmas! Bah! You signed my new contract didn’t you?

M’CHOAKUMYOUTH: Actually, we imposed it on ‘im.

WARD-OOGE:Same difference. Same difference. He’ll be wanting to sit at table and drink champagne with his masters next. Then where would we be?

CRATCHIT: In a democracy, sir?

WARD-OOGE:Precisely. Precisely. Speaking of which . . . (From away in the distance a great clanking of metallic objects is heard. The building shakes and rattles as a profound, doom-laden silence descends upon the assembled throng. As the clock strikes one the figure of an old crone in a velvet mantle insinuates itself into the room.) THATCH-THING: We are a ghost! of past, present and future. All in one.

M’CHOAKUMYOUTH: Most economical.

THATCH-THING: I just wanted to let you boys know what a fine thing it is you’re doing to further education. Baker bottled out on the schools, but I can see you’re doing an excellent job with the colleges. It’s so reassuring to know my legacy is safe in your hands.

WARD-OOGE:(having shrunk from his inflated beadle-form back to more miserly proportions) Aren’t you supposed to make me repent or something?

THATCH-THING: Wise up Sir Roger - Oops! I’m running ahead of myself there - this is the l990s. We don’t want any of that dribbling, sentimental, Dickensian nonsense any more now do we? Otherwise we’d be in danger of getting Marley and his crew back. And you don’t want that, do you?

WARD-OOGE, STUBBS-GRIND, M’CHOAKUMYOUTH, CHORUS: No, Your Majesty. Marley again? Back here? Back to the bad old days of education and lecturers and no managers? Oh no.

Never. Never. Never (The lights dim and all the characters disappear save for Cratchit. Head bowed, stumbling a little from his burdens, he shuffles out into the fog. The broken form of an old dog follows at his heels. As they disappear into the murk, is it a trick of the light or do they seem to merge into just one shambling entity?) CURTAIN

A Dickens of a Mess or A Christmas Carol in Hard Times The Cast: The Beadle Ebenezer Scrooge: Roger Ward (who else?), boss of bosses, chief wine taster for the Colleges’ Employers’ Forum Thomas Gradgrind: Sir William Stubbs, in charge of important “facts” for the Further Education Funding Council Adam M’Choakumyouth: chief executive of Tightfiscal College (on a salary of Pounds 95,000 a year) Robert Cratchit: drone-class lecturer at Tightfiscal on a new (flexible) contract and Pounds 11,000 a year Seamus Marley: predecessor of M’Choakumyouth (in his day known as principal) Ghost of many Christmases: Baroness Thatcher Chorus: five deputy chief executives, four financial directors, three information systems managers, two quality systems co-ordinators and a publicity consultant (named Partridge) on a “fair” fee