A Review by Indie Bookworm Cathy.

"The blurb for this novel is short and to the point.
And it was the blurb that caught my attention and made me decide to read the sample on the Amazon site.

I was sceptical and doubtful about downloading The Government's Top Salesman Tells All,
but I was wrong.

As soon as I started reading I was engaged by the hero of the nation, Jason Bryggs. I thought he was going to be just another city slicker looking to make a killing for himself (which he is) but the cleverness of this piece of writing is that you like Jason, sympathise with him and want things to work out.

Author John Problem has a healthily irreverent attitude to the government and a very funny way of writing about "The Prime Minister and Nick". The opening of the book explains what Jason Bryggs' new job is. So, I'm giving away no secrets by telling you that it is to sell off whatever national assets he can, in order to reduce the National Debt.

And Jason sets about his task with gusto as there's no shortage of rich buyers out there looking for the chance to buy Britain's heritage. Of course the plot derives considerable plausibility from the big sell-off by the Thatcher government in the 1980s of British oil, gas, electricity, telephones, water companies, coal and steel. It's not such a big step to what Jason Bryggs is commissioned to do to-day.

At times this book is laugh aloud funny. The writing style is sharp and pithy and moves along at a cracking pace. I read it in a couple of sittings and thoroughly enjoyed it. Light hearted and entertaining but with overtones of seriousness, The Government's Top Salesman Tells All is well worth a look."

 

Thank you, Indie Bookworm, your review is much appreciated. John.

Has Jason Bryggs Met His Match?

I let myself in, look at the screen - nothing urgent - and tidy the place up a bit. I’ve got this American girl coming round, friend of one of my pals in San Diego. He called me the other night.

“This is it, Jace,” he said. “She’s the one. Say so-long to your quiet life. Her name’s Buddy-Jo and she’s got a major in Cordon Bleu. Show her the creaking timbers of the Old World, introduce her to your high-up chums and take care. ‘Bye.”

All I need right now is a California gal who wants to stink out the place with fancy cooking. And probably wants to sit through the night in earnest discussion of the Decline of Empire. Theirs, I mean, not ours. I am still tidying the place up when the screen buzzes and on comes the face of Buddy-Jo. At least, I certainly hope it is.

“Er, 23rd. floor. Come on up,” I tell her.

I open the door to an amazing vision. She’s beautiful, willowy, got blue languorous eyes and a ton of blond hair piled on top of her head. And a great tan, with health shining from every pore. As Juanito said, forget the quiet life.

“Hi,” she says, slowly.

“Come in, come in,” I say. “Nice to meet you. How do you do? Have a drink. What would you like to drink? How was your trip? Please, make yourself at home.”

She arranges herself on one of my couches and says, “Milk, please.”

“Milk?”

“I don’t want to spoil my taste buds before we go eat.”

“Sure. Great. Milk, it is. You don’t mind if I have scotch?”

“Go ahead.” I do the necessary and assume she is expecting me to take her out to eat. Which is fine by me.

“Great place you have here,” she says. “What’s the decor? British minimalism?”

I look around. It doesn’t look minimal to me. Big video wall, one side of windows, book-stand, couches, work station. I’m very proud of it.

“Tell me,” I say. “How did you get past Security?”

“I just gave them your name, a big smile and my bag.”

“Your bag?”

“I don’t have an apartment yet and Wanito said you had two bedrooms, here. Is that O.K.? Only a couple of nights. I’ll be no bother and I’ll cook you a meal you’ll never forget.” I tell her she’ll be very welcome. Which is definitely the truth.

Bryggs' Christmas Wish was not granted. And now things are looking difficult....

“Everything alright, dear?” asks Annie as we drive away from the airport. Annie is my driver.

“Fine,” I say, “What’s been happening while I’ve been away? Any scandal?”

“No, dear. No scandal. I have to take you straight to the Prime Minister, though.”

“Oh,” I say, “Right.” I notice Annie is looking at me in the rear mirror.

“D’ye know a person called Gareth Leake?” she asks. The name rings a small bell but for a moment I can’t quite place it. Then I remember. He’s the P.M’s nephew. A nasty little toad as I recall. Attached to the P.M’s central office with no particular job.

“I think I do,” I answer, “Why do you ask?”

We are pulling in to Downing Street and going through the security gates.

“Och, well,” she says, “Have a nice day.” What was that about, I wonder. The good Annie was trying to tell me something, but discreetly. Everybody needs to hang on to their jobs in this “flexible workplace” age.

I show my pass to the policemen and enter the portals of Number Ten. I haven’t done this many times but when I do I always think of the days when Britain administered its Empire with remarkable statesmen, entrepreneurs who cared nothing for discomfort, the Thin Red Line holding back the borders and the Royal Navy keeping the supply lines open. All settling the problems of the world with an extraordinary confidence. It brings a lump to my throat every time. I wonder what they would think of Jason Bryggs helping to sell off the family silver and pull in a nice bonus for doing so. I push the thought aside because standing in front of me is the awful Gareth Leake looking, as he always does, very pleased with himself.

“Ah, Bryggs,” he says, in the usual way of his class.

“Gareth,” I say, “Keeping busy?”

“Indeed I am,” he says, “Come this way.” I follow his busy little frame and bouffant hair style down the corridor and we enter one of the ante rooms.

“Wait here.” he says. I sit in an uncomfortable reproduction antique from Indonesia and pick up the newspaper. The only news of interest is the arrest by the Serious Fraud Office of yet another senior executive from a large business firm and the State Visit of the Secretary General of oil-rich Askhabania who will be staying at Balmoral as he likes to shoot. I’ll bet he does, although the quarry may be different in this case. About half an hour passes and Leake re-appears.

“The Prime Minister will see you now,” he says and we march off down the corridor again.

“Ah, Bryggs,” says the P.M. Nick is there too and gives me a nod. I notice that Leake has perched himself on the edge of a chair and is obviously not leaving.  

Will Jason Bryggs get a Christmas present from his employers?

Every time I was summoned to see the PM or the DPM, I was always taken directly to their offices.  Never was I invited to meet either of them at one of the 9 restaurants or 19 bars dotted around the House of Commons and the House of Lords.  I figured they didn't want to be seen with a common salesman.    Maybe I'll suggest to them that, as it's Christmas, they might like to invite me for a festive drink.  Worth a try.  Especially as I'm helping them 'to get Britain moving again'....

Jason Bryggs' Potentially Biggest Sale.

It's Saturday morning and I'm in the office thinking. I want to do something big that will up the bonus substantially just in case they're thinking of 'letting me go.' Nick's OK but I don't like the look in the PM's eye when we meet.

How do I do that? That is the question. I give it a lot of thought and make a few calls. Then I e-mail Nick and tell him I'm ready to make a power-point to him and the P.M. with an immediate sale idea that will make a ton of money for the government, right now.

It's ten o'clock in the morning and coffee time in the P.M.'s office. He's wearing his usual shiny face although he's not looking very happy. His pal, the Chancellor, is in attendance, also grave. I'll swear he puts it on. Nick is also there. I set up the screen, take a sip of revolting coffee, and say I can make £22.53 billion in two months for them. Unfortunately the P.M. is looking out of the window as I say the number.

"Can't we get rid of those damned students?" he complains. "What the hell is the Home Minister doing about it?" Nick is tapping at his mobile and says,

"I'll have them moved on."

"Good. Pity we can't send them to Kabul. Right, Bryggs. What have you got for us?"

So I start again to power-point my idea to the P.M. This time I race through it to avoid his being diverted again, knowing that his attention span has been measured at eleven seconds. I have his attention for longer than that, though, because I repeat I can make £22.53 billion for the government in two months.

Of course, such dosh doesn't come from selling any old asset. Oh no. So I tell them what the asset is. Well, the P.M. doesn't seem to like it. He freezes. I give a quick glance at the rinky-dink chancellor - he's gone white. Nick is impassive. Then the P.M. says quietly,

'Are you out of your mind, Bryggs? Have you gone mad? Sell the House of Commons! If that's the best you can do, you can get out now.' But Nick intervenes.

'Prime Minister. Perhaps we should ask Bryggs to expand on this proposal.'

'What for? I've never heard of such a lunatic idea!'

'It's a lot of money.'

'Good God! Have you taken leave of your senses as well?'

'There would be no need to let it become public news. And there is that unavoidable payment coming up next week. Jason, would you tell us your proposal again, in the simplest of terms?'

'With pleasure,' I say. 'You sell the House of Commons to a buyer I have identified and then lease it back. The buyer would pay £22.2 billion. Immediately. He would lease it back to you for a peppercorn rent.'

Nick Clegg is getting poor ratings at the moment, but here's what Jason Bryggs thinks of him...

I grew to like Nick. He's not as stupid as the rest of them. Not difficult, of course. And underneath that young-bloke exterior, he's pretty savvy. It probably comes from his slew of weird European ancestors. They were all aristocrats with castles – he even had a great uncle in Russia who was clubbed to death by his own serfs when the revolution came. No kidding. You may think he looks a bit glum most of the time, but that means he's thinking. Probably about how he could stop the P.M. staying P.M. after the next election?

Jason Bryggs introduces himself...

"I am employed by the British government.  In an unusual job.  Selling off anything that can raise a decent price for a government with an urgent need.   The Prime Minister and the Deputy Prime Minister have decided that almost any of Great Britain’s assets, institutions, famous buildings, whatever, should be sold off to reduce the National Deficit, now galactic.  Unfortunately, everything in sight has already been privatised or ‘re-engineered’ and they still have a shambles of a financial situation.  But, hopefully, I’ll find stuff to sell nobody thought of.  Not businesses of course, they’re private, and anyway most of them are foreign-owned now.  

I’m not sure there’s going to be much job satisfaction with this assignment, but it will look good on my c.v.    In any event, I’m the only one around with any real experience of this kind of stuff.   Which I won’t go into right now.

At the final interview I was checked in to Number Ten and presented by a lackey to the P.M. and the D.P.M. (Deputy Prime Minister), both of them smiling.  Then I discovered they were smiling at the person behind me, bringing in the tea.  The P.M’s smooth, shining features assumed that false determined look that you see in all the newspapers,
‘Jason,’ said the P.M. ‘It seems you are the man for the job.  Nick and I want you to have a go.  Do you think you can do it - raise an awful lot of money for your country?’
‘It will certainly have my best shot, Prime Minister,’ I said. 
‘Good. You will report to Nick here on everything.  Nothing to be signed without his approval.  Clear?  Good.  Then go to it.’

And go to it, I will.  The salary is OK and the bonus possibilities appear to be limitless. And I get a Lexus limo, with driver.   The only problem is that my contract is for one year maximum.    I’m going to have to shuffle to get the max bonus in time."