Comp. 3395 yielded many fine entries in which Animal Farm became a satire on office politics. Deserving of a mention: David Silverman for his White House version featuring a ‘prize wild boar, one E. Long-Tusk’ and ‘two American XL Bullies, Don and Shady’; and Sue Pickard’s scenario in which two workers, Pinko and Porky, ‘inspired by a motivational speaker, Major Boar’, wreak havoc. Also William Linfoot, J.C.H. Mounsey and Nicholas Lee. The £25 vouchers go to those below.
Napoleon had opted to WFH that morning, drafting a presentation for a forthcoming mandatory Inclusion and Wellbeing workshop. Clover, a part–timer on account of caring responsibilities she wasn’t prepared to specify outside her appraisal, was on a programmed absence, her out-of-office email absentmindedly redirecting correspondents to contact Mollie, from whom no response would be forthcoming – not, as many might have imagined, because she was characteristically preening herself, but on account of her volunteering, in response to one of Napoleon’s inspirational directives, at a nearby charitable institution for a token few hours. Quite how many of the sheep were off sick is still disputed, their indistinguishability exacerbated by the fact that the dogs, who might have kept count, were off-site taking cigarette breaks to which they had no entitlement. The knacker’s cart must have come and gone sometime between nine and twelve. Boxer, taking some flexitime, wouldn’t know.
Adrian Fry
Ermintrude had not seen the pigs from Bovine Resources before: Woffle, a sleek Berkshire sow, Grunt, an impressively long Landrace boar, and a third, an expressionless Vietnamese pot-bellied pig who sat quietly and took notes. Woffle pointed to some mysterious marks on a flipchart.
‘Congratulations, comrades!’ she squealed, ‘We are well on the way to becoming the most diverse dairy herd in the land! All animals are equal! But remember, “From each according to her ability”.’ Ermintrude looked round proudly at her wonderfully varied co-workers – not just brown, white and black cows but woolly ones, cattle with beards, wings or long ears, huge cows with terrifying horns. Grunt took over the presentation. ‘So those who can, must increase their milk output from six gallons to eight or nine.’ Ermintrude raised a hoof. ‘But how can I do that, comrade?’ ‘Come to me with solutions, not problems!’ was the reply. ‘Dismissed!’
Frank Upton
One day a notice appeared on the farm gates, advertising for a new head of Animal Relations. The only applicant was Mr Reynard, a fox. Rumours flew, especially among the geese. Some whispered that Mr Reynard had torn the notice down before anyone else could apply; others shrugged, and assumed the goat had eaten it, as usual.
After the appointment, Ms Cluck, as always the spokesperson for the ladies in the egg-production department, protested that as a fox, he wasn’t really a farm animal at all. This unprogressive attitude deeply shocked the management; she was suspended with immediate effect, and recommended for Diversity training. Finally a sub-committee consisting mostly of Mr Reynard decided she should be transferred to the Stevenage branch.
‘Stevenage?’ asked a cow, ruminatively. ‘Wasn’t that where the turkey went just before Christmas?
‘It was indeed,’ said Mr Reynard, licking his lips with retrospective pleasure.
George Simmers
Both pigs were regretting having assemblies in the big barn. They had assumed that the other animals would not have any resolutions, but one of the more ambitious sheep took the floor. ‘I propose a revision of the company slogan,’ she said. ‘“Two legs bad, four legs good” is a bit thin. We need something more memorable to be competitive. I suggest “Two legs OK, four legs hooray, eight would be great.”’
‘But nothing has eight legs,’ objected a junior pig. ‘Wodan’s horse Sleipnir did,’ said a horse. This was drowned with bleating.
‘So do octopuses,’ said Muriel the goat.
‘And how many of them are there on Animal Farm?’ countered a dog.
‘OK, spiders, then.’ ‘Terrible optics, darling,’ said one of the older sheep.
This went on for two hours until they decided to form a slogan assessment sub-committee. Snowball and Napoleon wondered why they had bothered.
Brian Murdoch
‘We can’t all be meerkats,’ announced Mr Bruin, Executive Deputy Director. He looked down at the expectant faces staring at his sharp teeth, and adjusted his head. ‘But we can try!’ came the response, childishly loud. Bartram, one of the oldest still working, murmured to a neighbour. ‘But we’ve always been of the mongoose persuasion, nothing …’ One of the brasher new recruits piped up, jiggling paper clips excitedly. ‘If I may, sir, Bartram says a meerkat is not a mongoose.’
Bruin sighed. This was the sort of footling remark the humans had made before being expelled from management, retrained as home-workers, and engaged upon compiling surveys and questionnaires. He nodded to Ram and Baaghum, brought in from the provincial outfield to add gravitas. ‘Speak,’ he called to them. ‘We must be independent of thought,’ they said in unison. ‘We must at all costs avoid rigid departmentalism. We are not sheep.’
Bill Greenwell
‘I will not work harder,’ Boxer muttered, devouring his third hay break of the day. ‘Napoleon gave me an official warning when I’ve been carrying the load of six horses. And took the credit for my ploughing.’
Benjamin nodded. ‘Bloody white-collar brainworkers. They give pep talks about the apple quota, micromanage us, then complain that nobody takes initiative. When even the sheep hate team-bonding sessions, you know the place is toxic.’ He himself was tired of sullen cows on permanent sick leave, dogs howling in the loos, gossiping chickens and the blatant favouritism of Mollie the horse, who plaited her mane during meetings.
Napoleon’s office door opened and a trotter emerged. ‘Is there a stone in your hoof, Boxer? No? Remember, four legs good, unless four legs slack off. Shall I call the vet?’ Benjamin glared. Napoleon would write haranguing memos, then spend hours on his laptop watching pork porn.
Janine Beacham
No. 3398: That’s your cue
As the world championship begins, you are invited to write a poem about snooker (16 lines maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 30 April.
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