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September 2022, Virtual
September 29 2022, Virtual
In his seasonal Comment, Mike Platt tells the heartbreaking story of Timmy TMC and his search for value, a Christmas Pantomime and work of utter fiction
Timmy was sad. He had just returned from GTMC anonymous where he admitted to all of them that he was a TMC. He was looking for help to cure this terrible affliction but all the other sad souls took one look at him and agreed he was clearly past his sell by date and revoked his membership.
It had all started so very well for Timmy all those years ago when his two benevolent uncles, Colin Commission and Oscar Override, used to send him cheques for doing very little. However recently, having used him for their horrible data mining purposes, they had walked out leaving him a penniless orphan. Then even stranger things started to happen as his few pals started disappearing, changing their names and, worst of all, reverting to cannibalism and eating each other up. The stress of it all got to little Timmy and he started wondering if there would be a future role for him in this wacky and homicidal travel supply chain. He was sure he was useful but a little bit sketchy on the detail.
But Timmy was made of stronger stuff and knew, with a little sage advice from his supply chain colleagues, he would discover his value. "I know," he thought. "I will go and see my dear old benefactor Client Hardup."
"Sorry Timmy," said Hardup whilst absently massaging his EBIT, "but I have lost all my profits. I gave them to a nice man from the Fat Feline Investment Bank and he said they had been magic-ed away by millions of little elves wanting to feed their mortgages. However he also said that he is prepared to travel the length and breadth of Monte Carlo to get it back if Timmy could donate a ticket."
"Sorry," said Timmy. "I don't get freebies any more. In fact the last ones were those First Class round the world tickets which went to Mrs Hardup when she coincidently won your office grand draw."
Hardup was sorry for Timmy. He remembered the days when Timmy used to give him good service, rebate cheques and upgrades. "Go and see my two sisters Pammy Procurement and Charmaine Cheaper-Thanyu," he said. "They may think of something valuable for you to do, although don't hold your breath as I have just cut their travel allowance again."
Now these two girls hated each other something ugly. Charmaine thought she could do and get things better than Pammy. Pammy thought Charmaine was an undisciplined tart hawking herself around the web without any thought of the infections she could catch like cancellation flu and card chargeitus. The only thing they had in common was they both thought they could do anything better than Timmy who, to them, was an unnecessary downward pull on their sagging assets. They had enough budget stretch marks between the already.
Poor old Timmy. Little sustainable income and not the sharpest pencil in the commercial box. He trudged back to his lonely BTC and implanted himself in front of his PC. He aimlessly rubbed his mouse even though his fairy god mother had warned him his eyesight would be impaired when POOF! Out from the PC sprang the GDS Genie. "I will grant you one wish," she cried.
"Oh Genie," he wailed. "You have told everyone that you know everything so please tell me what I need to do to find my value and make Pammy and Charmaine respect me like they used to when I bribed them.
"Blooming Heck," said Genie. "That's a tricky question. How should I know? I have enough problems of my own dealing with that terrible ogre Luftimonster from Iataland. He wants me to get my sectors off for next to nothing. And then there is that green monster Olearymouth. He has been clambering down his beanstalk lately threatening you, me, in fact everyone he claps eyes on. So don't bother me with your pathetic questions! And leave that mouse alone."
Timmy was shocked and saddened. He had tried his colleagues, his clients, suppliers and even a fellow intermediary without a sniff of finding his value. Off he wandered into the pre Christmas recessionary gloom. Even his Blackberry had stopped talking to him and his Vodaphone, instead of saying "How are you?" when switched on now said "Book Direct." It was almost enough to make Timmy give up and become a consultant like everyone else.
Just as all seemed, lost a jolly faced lumbering giant in a Santa outfit scooped Timmy up, clutched him warmly to his chest and squeezed him tenderly by the throat.
"Giant BAsil," Timmy wheezed.
"Never fear Timmy," boomed BAsil. "You can trust me and I will look after you. Just sign this binding agreement and all your troubles will be over - well at least for a month or two."
"But that's what you said last time before you started smacking me about," said Timmy.
"Now, now," said BAsil. "Let's forget about the past."
"That's also what you said last time," replied Timmy.
"NOW SEE HERE," boomed BAsil with an inscrutable look on his face. "Have you got any other options?
"Oh BAsil," said Timmy. "It's so good to be home. I'm hungry. Got any commission?!"
And they all lived happily every after - or did they?