The worst thing about shit stirrers is that they become self-fulfilling. After a while they start to believe their own bullshit and go from the annoying twit stage to being full blown pains in the arse.
Shit stirrers are dynamos. They fuel most committees and organizations and are the heart of all mid-winter Wednesday night meetings of the People Against Absolutely Everything Logical. They are at the front of all police barricades when the visiting head of the African Puppet Regime comes to town and they give Ford and GMH stick every time a wiper blade arm is faulty on the new Maximo Coupe.
Charles Morland was a card carrying member.
The elevation to registered and recognized agitator is slow, gradual, almost osmosis… so it is difficult to know when Chas first used his special gifts. He was always involved in some sort of stir or another but his biographers would have to record the ill-fated bus break down on the snow trip with his Third Form class of 1976 as his first truly identifiable "professional" stir.
The first time, legs approximately at shoulder width, hands on hips, eyes narrowed directly to the subject of the tirade, this time a hapless bus driver with absolutely no ability to fix a Cummins Diesel that just wasn’t going to go. Those time-honored phases like "not good enough", "not planned well enough", "where’s the manager", "we’ve paid good money" and a barrage of some such, heralded his movement into that New World.
His school mates all patting him on the back. The look of absolute rage mixed with frustration on the driver’s face. The quiet concurrence of the authority figures, the teachers, all gave him a taste of his future role in society. From that day he knew what he wanted to be.
Through the years, university, teaching, and later, trade union delegate, he honed his skills and learnt his craft. At one time he was actively involved in thirteen different sub-committees, pressure groups, lobby centers and, with his ascension to secretary of the National Teachers Union, Charles Morland had arrived.
Now, beard brushed, gray trousers pressed, navy shirt ironed, red tie knotted and Tweed jacket fitted with leather elbow patches, he was in his arena, trained, trialed and ready for his "Olympics".
So, leather carry-all stuffed with all the facts and figures needed to prove the thrust of his arguments to the national meeting of the sub-electoral college of the state bodies, he was ready to leave. A taxi fare to the airport, an hour in the plane, a taxi from the airport to the conference centre and then… it begun.
He smiled in the mirror, his red ribbon resplendent on the lapel of his jacket, along with any number of politically correct badges and heralds for causes and beliefs that he didn’t so much support as acknowledged as cannon fodder for his stirring. His favourite, "If You Kill A Whale, You Kill A Friend" reminding him if the time he picketed the Japanese embassy, that was a magnificent campaign; he still had the video of him being carted away by the police; a truly wonderful time.
Now, the taxi, he thought to himself, running through a list of relevant trigger points. There was the cleanliness of the vehicle, the driver’s personal hygiene, his competence, the noise of the radio in the cabin, the route he took, the speed they traveled at and, in general, his driving style. Taxi trips always gave Morland a change to hone and practice and he gave his lips a lick in wishful anticipation.
The bloody taxi was on time, clean, staffed by a driver in uniform who was well presented, articulate, generally interested in Morland’s trip and more than able to hold his own in a discussion as to the general and current political situation in the country. He drove well, took an intelligent route that got them to the terminal in well under time and never once sped. To finalize Morland’s displeasure, the cab was fitted with computer dispatch equipment so there was no noise except for a bit of Mozart the driver was playing in the cassette deck and only after he had asked.
They exchanged moneys and he wished Morland a good day. He got out of the cab and as it drove away he mumbled "bastard" under his breath. It was not fun to be happy with everything. Damn it to hell.
Further compounding his funk was the fact that the flight was on time, the queues short and the counter staff efficient. He received exactly the seat he had asked for and the in-cabin service was acceptable.
The frustration was head throbbing, no one next to him to complain to or about and the trip from the airport to the conference centre on a par with the one earlier in the day.
He was not a happy shit stirrer when he arrived. All had gone well, Morland felt deflated. The conference was efficient but boring, it went well. That bloody word was haunting him. "Well…" he mumbled to himself "…for fuck’s sake." Things just should not go well. It was all this bloody awareness and political correctness, it made things go well.
They were staying at the Hilton for the conference and the room was ready and well presented. Cocktails were set for 8pm and Morland entered his room feeling less than a glad fellow.
Showering and changing into his casual attire that was no different to his work attire except for his removing his the tie, he made ready for the evening. These affairs were usually well fueled for him. The service was always slow, the food bad and the drinks order always confused. A smile came to his face, perhaps he would still be able to get a daily dose. The truth was he felt like a long distance runner dragged away from his regime by an ankle injury.
With a smile and a resounded slap of his thighs he stood and walked to the door, yes, this evening, it would be good again.
Bloody Nora, the meal was fantastic. It was in the main hall of the hotel. The catering perfect and the Entree of local seafood served over Cos lettuce and the Chef’s "secret seafood sauce" superb.
The main of Mongolian Lamb served over Saffron Rice and with vinegared vegetables was remarkable in its texture and tastes. Desert of Fruit Pudding with Brandy Custard was served hot and fresh and the coffee, from individual plungers, was perfect... blast it to all damnation!
Morland was a picture of misery. The conversation was friendly and on course with all his agendas. What a complete failure it was all becoming. The only thing Morland could complain about at all, and complaints by themselves are not shit stirring, well not that there are rules about this but a certain credo existed in the rarefied airs of Morland’s endeavours, was that the bread he was served was wholemeal and he demanded white.
Seeing that all others had wholemeal he just saw the slightest chance to grab on and start up. It was not to be, a fresh mini loaf of crusty white bread appeared, steaming hot from the oven and was cut for him as he watched. He scowled at his good fortune.
Even the bloody band was subdued, correct and non intrusive. The only course for Morland now was to drink. So he did. The whiskey was served and Morland drunk it.
As the evening drew on he just got more and more morose anddrank accordingly. People around him could see or sense the cloud so they tended to stay away. One thing Morland had never quite keened was that people never liked shit-stirrers.
OK, they slapped them on the back, they drank toasts to their achievements on their behalf, they always voted for them to represent them on long weekend work-groups when they wanted to go to the snow.
Gee, they even feed and watered them at conferences like this to get the means to the ends met. But they never like them. In fact, most loathe them because they transgress those lines and barriers that gentle society draw and erect.
Now, here in laid the problem for Morland, he was a very bad drunk. It made him aggressive. Well he was always so but sober, the aggression was able to be complimented with intelligent action and adroit comment. Drunk, he was just aggressive.
Not wanting to get into the causal nature of all this but his 5’2’’ stature may have had something to do with it. When he got drunk he was like a fox terrier with a bee sting. A yelling, nipping shit of a dog that really is good for nothing much at all.
Morland sat, slumped over the bar mumbling. His mumbling was dead giveaway that he was drunk. He mumbled and mumbled, occasionally a single word would be yelled in inflection but at most times, mumbled.
Into his drink mostly but, occasionally, to the hapless patron that was forced by the crowd to invade the no man’s land around Morland.
At just about the time the barman was considering having this patron and guest escorted back to his room it happened. A large man, dressing in a blue suit, well cut and accessorized with red kerchief and tie approached the bar. He was the spokesman for the government in the matters of holiday hour leave loading. Something Morland was agenda’d to represent (shit stir) about.
The only space left was next to the fox terrier… in the no man’s land and the tall man stood there, trying to ignore the mumbling little twerp with the leather patches on his elbows.
Morland looked up and saw him through a haze of fermented malt. His recognition systems were slowed to a snail’s pace and some back-up system must have kicked in… "You… you bazzderd!" Morland said, pulling the man’s arm… the shit stirring gene rising in his soul.
The tall man looked at him and pulled his arm away.
"Cum… back…. ‘ere…. you… bazzderd…" Morland slurred. The spokeman was not a man to curry fools and held Morland’s hand short of touching him again.
"Behave yourself you silly little fool" he said.
Morland was speechless, he was not a man to be taken lightly. The tall man turned and walked away with his drink. Morland lurched to his feet and stepped after the man.
"I… said…." Morland yelled, the crowd now quieted by the exchange stood looking, Morland hitting the man in the small of the back, both surprising him and causing him to drop his drink as he stumbled from the blow. "cum… back…"
With the speed of light the tall man turned and the punch was a single direct blow, right on Morland’s nose, sending him sprawling back hitting the bar and falling to the floor, feet splayed, back against the timber.
A collective "Ahhhhh" went through the crowd. The tall man turned, picked up the glass, put it on the table next to him and just left shaking his head
Morland was foaming at the mouth, spittle, red with blood from his nose, dripping onto his shirt and tie.
"You… You all saw that…" he felt the glow ignite his body, at last, something to stir about, yes, thank you God.
"You saw it brothers…" he yelled like some flag waving recruiter for the party. "He punched me… the bastard punched me…" a look of joy, of exultation was shining on Morland’s face.
No one said anything, not a word. Seconds passed, Morland, smiling, grinning like some pathological jokester in the day room of Sunny Bank Home for the Clinically Fucked Up.
"Yes… He PUNCHED ME!", he said loudly, his tone triumphant.
A voice from the back of the crowd carried across the gathering.
"No he didn’t you dick head. You tripped!"
Morland was stuck dumb in the middle of his glee.
Then more voices joined the chorus;
"Yes, tripped"…
"You’re pissed as a fart you idiot"…
"Go root ya boot"…
and a liturgy of such comments.
Morland’s face fell blank. One person leaned down to look him in the eye, he was the bloke from the Northern States, a man Morland had pegged as weak, never rocked the boat, never said "boo" to a bloody goose.
He looked the pathetic lump sprawled on the cold tiles, shook his head and just said "You know what mate, people reckon you’re a shit stirrer. Truth is you’re just a shit!"