Anti-minimumism June 2003

Alternative Investments plans a grand new palace to celebrate the success of his latest advertising campaign. The locals want paying. Whatever next, bloody riff-raff.

Ch-ch-ch-ching! Ah readers, the sun shines bright, the birds are chirping, and the wicker crops are in full bloom. Our coffers are replenished thanks to my new scheme - entering the seedy world of advertising to promote Alternative Investments-backed produce. My plan to create an environment of consumer terror on the island has worked a treat. Social comparison anxiety led half the island to flock immediately down the stores to stock up on stuff I'd pressured them into thinking they need. No doubt Salamander's cupboards are now heaving with unwanted ice-cream makers and Soda Streams, but if that's what's needed to boost the economy, so be it.

I'm full of energy, buoyed by the new internal organs I've purchased for myself as a congratulatory gift. A baboon's heart and eskimo's spleen were implanted in me last week by my team of surgeons. I'm now 45% jungle creature and 15% Innuit - I feel pretty damned frisky and become nervous around herring, but it keeps me alive. My manservant Farouk grew quite over-excited by our windfall, too, donning a gold lame suit, monocle and cane for an impromptu re-enaction of the Broadway hit Annie.

With all this cash floating about, I feel the need for a second home, and I select the banks of the Rio Fernandizo, our mighty tributary river, for its location. The medium shall be wicker and gold, the theme shall be ancient Greece, and no expense is to be spared. I get the world-renowned architects Choquette, Groot & Berklejohn on the case. The designs are magnificent, and early press notices mocking them are ill-educated. My new home is assessed as a "monstrous vanity project" [Architectural Review] a "gargantuan act of self-congratulation" [New York Times] and a "putrid wart on the face of Salamander" [Prince Charles].

Certainly, the main mural is an acquired taste - a picture of myself, clad in just a shammy leather, fighting a snake with a sword as a naked blonde and admiring Farouk look on adoringly. It's loosely based on one of Saddam's palace works. But I worry not. The main concern is paying the workers. My team of accountants insist that if we stump up the minimum wage or offer any kind of healthcare to the cloggers, we'll end up facing bankruptcy again.

Instead, we settle on payment in reconstituted wicker, which the 2,000 workers will be allowed to spend in limited quantities on Tuesday mornings, the 'Sacred Morning of Rest' (La Manana Sagrada Del Descanso). We don't want to create a run on the currency, even if it is tough on the poor blighters.

As construction begins, there's talk of unrest among the workers. Apparently they're demanding all sorts of new employment rights and threatening an attack on my current residence if they don't get them. Farouk even has to repel a couple of the rotters getting in through the kitchens with a broom. I find myself back in my room cowering again - and I've only just re-emerged after six months of bed-bound solitude. What is to be done? More soon, readers... .