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Many years ago, long before man decided to move out of Africa and muck up the rest of the world, the King of Egypt decided he’d commission the erection of a burial chamber in which he (who was feeling unwell at the time) could be laid to rest in peace and comfort when he died.

That his death was imminent was indisputable. He was after all almost one hundred and forty five years old and although he still had all his own teeth, testes, eyesight, memory, libido and pension, all nineteen of his wives nagged him mercilessly everyday and made his life thoroughly miserable. Worse, several of his girlfriends, boyfriends and assorted other hangers on plotted openly and spitefully for his demise. They were fed up with him and his pernicketty ways, bald head and athletes feet and wanted him out of the way so that the beautiful and very sexy, queen in waiting Nevertitty could reign in his place. Worse still, on his one hundred and thirty ninth birthday someone had almost succeeded in poisoning him and it was only by good fortune, and the somewhat disturbing and unexpected death of his pet pig ‘Uluruhu’ that he managed to survive that ignominy.

After that the King became more cautious. That is to say somewhat paranoid. He engaged a complicated team of food tasters and bed warmers, foot washers and nostril cleaners to his court, instructing them, in no uncertain terms, that should he die through their negligence or misrepresentation then their heads would be on the block, so to speak. He impressed upon them the importance of cleanliness and good computing skills, the effectiveness of hindsight, foresight and clean foreskins (because of the sand) and the reason behind all his obsessions (well some of the reasons anyway. He didn’t tell them about his aunt or his grandmother) At the same time he continued to draw up plans for a burial edifice in which his body could be placed when his time came (preferably before the next extortionate tax bill arrived)

This structure, he determined, should be large enough and strong enough to endure and protect his mummified remains from the ravages of time and thieving Egyptian peasantry, forever, be impressive in its ingenuity and shape and exacting in the strength of its cunning and careful construction. It should be tall enough to be seen from any point of his kingdom, yet not of a shape which would unduly disfigure his favourite skyline. A blot on the landscape he did not want, and so, after many months of frustration and scribbled sketches on the backs of envelopes, he came to the conclusion that what was really wanted was a pyramid.

He called his chief adviser immediately and was told that it couldn’t be done. Pyramids were no good for the bank balance, local authority or EU he was told in no uncertain terms. Both bank managers and council officials were dead against them, bank managers because of their cost and council officials because of the incomprehensibility of their constructional drawings. You could get neither planning permission nor mortgage to cover the cost and even if you did the VAT and council tax for such a thing would be unthinkable.

As for the EU, well they were against everything not designed in Italy and made in either France or Germany.

The King persisted. He had plenty of money and didn’t need a mortgage, He already owned the land and the quarry out of which the building materials would come and, being King, his word was his bond. So he had several dozen minor officials beheaded, their heads pickled and sent to Brussels as an indication of his contempt for the stupidity of the EU as a concept. He sent rude, flaming Emails to Presidents Bush and Blair, the commander in Chief of the Royal Navy, the secretaries of the CIA, CBI and Gas Board and anyone else whose names appeared in his address book. He threatened to invade south Wales, the islands of Lundy, Steepholm and Flatholm and sent a gunboat to harass Spanish trawlers in the Dover Straits. This in itself was no bad thing but it meant that all the Spanish chipshops went broke on the Costa del Sol which was a shame because they were all owned by retired British people.

Other than that everyone ignored him (except for English Heritage who own Lundy. They promptly wrote to him cancelling his lifetime membership of their organisation)

Thereafter, for several years, nothing much happened of note in the country of Egypt.

But it came to pass that a certain traveller, who had fallen upon hard times due to a downturn in the construction industry in the fair country of Albion, happened one day to stumble along the road into that great steaming city known as Cairo. He bummed about for a while, as all travellers do, eating the leftovers from market stalls and hotel waste bins and swapping his few remaining possessions with native kids for fly ridden dried bananas, unripe dates or small virtually inedible fish. He caught dysentery, a peculiar strain of clap and a small colubus monkey which he sold to a magician for a sovereign. Then one day, whilst begging at the back door of the palace he fell into a conversation with one Abdul (as one often does in these foreign places) and discovered to his delight that, not only was the King looking for an artisan who had exactly his skills but that the wages on offer, included full pension rights, 300 days paid holiday every year and a Nileside Villa at Old Abydos ( which to anyone who doesn’t know the area, is situated in the posher part of the town)

Needless to say, the traveller, in a great haste of excitement bade the said Abdul to convey his business card forthwith to the king. It read:

Sir

Nathan

M Newton.

Esq. B.A. N.C.P.

N.I.B. C.W. N.U.T.

Carpenter and Builder.

Bijou Residences a Speciality.

Alterations, Altercations, Loft Conversions.

Pymarids and Palaces made to order. No job too small.

Telephone 01603 961300. Email: SirIsaac@naughtynaughty.co.uk

He was aware that the qualifications he purported to have were largely spurious and that the only wall be had ever built had fallen down as soon as the mortar was dry. However, if nothing else he was a chancer. He knew whatever he did his work would be no worse that that carried out by illiterate school leavers whose only previous encounter with a brick was with the one which they’d stolen to hurl at a passing chariot. That he might suffer the same fate as the beheaded officials did not occur to him as he lolled expectantly in the dusty shade of a crumbling sphinx, ate a few dates and waited for Abdul’s return.

Time passed and several other dynasties rose and fell. The course of the river Nile subtly altered. Saturn moved out of Virgo into Leo, Jupiter out of Sagittarius into Pisces, Mars out of the sweetshop and into the post office and the blonde bird from number 17 into a council flat down by the station ‘cos she was pregnant. Both the US dollar and the useless euro were devalued out of existence and a new world order, run and controlled by Tabby Cats began. We know all this from the archaeological remains which have been discovered all along the Nile valley, from the delta to Abu Simbel and at the confluences of the Blue and the White Niles deep in the incontinent continent of Africa. Much of the evidence can be viewed in the appropriate part of our own beloved British Museum. (Except for that which they have lost, sold, mislaid or thrown away by mistake)

Nathan waited patiently. After all this time he had grown rather bored and tired, as evidenced by the length of his hair (seventeen and a half feet) his toenails (four feet two inches) and the height of the bank of date stones and teabags around him (nineteen foot six inches)

Then one day Abdul returned. He had good news as well as bad news to relate.

“Give me first the good news!” Nathan said.

“You’ve got the job,” Abdul said.

“Hooray!” Nathan said flippantly. He had almost forgotten what the job entailed by then “Now give me the news which is bad”

“The hourly rate is below the minimum wage, there is no pension and the hours are ten every day, Monday to Friday!”

Sadly Nathan slowly shook his head.

“Wait!” Abdul interrupted, “there is more!”

“Oh yes?”

Abdul grinned.

“You do get the cottage in Old Abydos along with three Nubian slaves and all the dates you can eat!”

“I’m bloody sick of dates!” Nathan spat. “Are they female?”

Abdul gaped at him “What the dates?”

“No, not the dates, you bloody stupid foreigner!” Nathan shouted. “The Nubian slaves!”

“Oh….!” Abdul nodded with relief. “Female yes, of course. What else would they be……………………?”

“Make it six then and I’ll take the job!” Nathan snapped.

He was brought before the King the very next day. The palace was dark and cool inside, fragrant with the scents of exotic spices and redolent with the aroma of flatulent camels. He bowed and scraped before the King exactly as he was bidden to do, murmuring the words and phrases of greeting, in Egyptian but meaningless to him, as instructed.

The King gazed at him haughtily.

Nathan held his breath. All seemed well but, it was the king of Egypt after all, so you never could tell.

Then the King waved his hand and a minion was ushered into the room, a thin woman bearing a robe emblazoned on its back with the word ‘WIMPEY’ (which means, in the common language of that place, ‘we inter millions of pharaohs every year).

The minion bowed, presented the robe to Nathan and left. He was shown the door (several windows, a staircase and two en-suites, all of which he noticed suffered from shoddy workmanship) given the keys to the villa at Old Abydos and the name, address, vital statistics and telephone number of the building site foreman.

Next day he was awakened at dawn by his six hand maidens, fed, watered, dressed and directed, all in less time than it takes to say ’WIMPEY’ (why indeed make pyramids exciting yussef?) and as the sun rose he found himself standing alone in the desert with his theodolite in his hand. (Well there was no law against it)

Levels were taken and a start was made on the laying out of the base of the pyramid, according to ancient customs, triangulations, transmogrification (which does not involve cats for that is at Bubastis) and various complicated alignments based on the movements of the sun, moon and the mobile brothel from Heliopolis. He was still there at nightfall, calculating and scheming, measuring and dreaming and of course wondering what he would do once he got home. Would he have enough energy left to attend to his duties. Six dusky houris without any clothes on! Not a bra to their names, any of them. No, not even a single sock or half a knicker!

He chuckled. Minimum wage or not, the bonuses which came with this job were definitely worth having.

Needless to say, Nathan worked hard on the site for the rest of that year, slowly bringing the sloping sides of the pyramid higher and higher out of the sand. It was gruelling work in the heat but for some reason he enjoyed it immensely. It gave him a break from the mosquitoes all along the river and the six sex starved girls waiting eagerly in the villa for his return.

But it wasn’t all roses.

He grew sun-tanned and cynical, sore fingered and skinny. Ten hours a day he slaved on the building then ten hours a night he worked even harder at home. Nubian slaves and their non stop demands occupied all his waking moments, their round smoothness contrasting with the sharp angles and hard triangular lines of the blocks of stone, which also occupied the remainder of his waking moments.

Sadly, although he was often expected, the King himself never came to view the construction, sending instead his chief adviser and chief asp trainer ‘Michael the Mighty to make notes and keep him up to date with all that was going on. When Nathan tentatively questioned the Kings absence Michael just shrugged. Both he and the King very busy people, he said and there were simply not enough hours in the day to go pyramiding around the kingdom. He was told to get on with his work and stop complaining. There were many much worse off than he and if he was not satisfied he knew what he could do.

So Nathan shrugged and got on with his work.

Weekends were especially joyful to him however. Those were his days off and the time he set aside for sailing his beloved dhow on the long reaches of the great river Nile. The boat, which he had swapped for a load of stone rubble and two sacks of coconuts with an old Arab who was down on his luck, sailed like a dream. Easy to handle it skimmed through the water lightly, spraying cool glittering droplets onto the breasts of the giggling girls sitting on tasselled cushions in the stern.

Nathan sighed with contentment. Apart from the girls and the dhow he had not a care or indeed possession in the world, and, when he considered the situation carefully he came to the conclusion that, just then, as the sun was setting behind the palm trees along the riverbank, that he was the luckiest man in the world.

Then, almost a year to the day from the commencement of its construction the time drew nigh when the pyramid would be complete. Word went out round the desertside that the great day was near and that, very soon, the King himself would come and give his blessing to the structure. For days on end the people waited, squatting hopefully in untidy groups and arguing listlessly, while hot dog sellers set up their stalls and ice cream vans vied with each other for the better pitch. The sun rose and set several times, the moon waxed and waned but still the King did not appear. Instead, on the ninth day, to everyone’s annoyance Michael the Mighty put in an appearance again. There were still things wrong with the King’s pyramid he insisted. Structural faults which had yet to be put right so the King would not come and inspect the edifice until he, Michael the Mighty, was satisfied that it was properly completed. He pointed out that, for a start, the flight of stairs between the foyer and the family bathroom were too narrow and that the chamber above had one wall out of plumb. Nathan retaliated by proving to him, with a flourish, that everything had been built exactly as the detailed drawings showed. He brandished the huge roll of parchments under Michael’s nose. “Look!” he said “The staircase is exactly the width it should be and the wall in question is really supposed, for some strange reason, to lean in exactly the way that it does.

Deflated and grumpy Michael the Mighty went away and Nathan heaved a sigh of relief and went back to his work. The demands and obligations in his harem were bad enough without a troublemaking man like Michael the Mighty hanging around.

However, the next day, just like a bad smell Michael the Mighty was back again and this time carrying a papyrus scroll bearing some questions directly from the King.

Puffing importantly he drew himself up to his full height (five foot six) and proceeded, in a sing song voice, to read them out.

Are you going to be much longer and are we nearly there yet?

How much more than your original estimate is it going to cost me by the time it is finished?

Can you build in, out of those odds and ends lying about, a cupboard under the stairs, a wardrobe in bed two and some bookshelves in the loo?

Would it be possible to put in a catflap?

Where the hell has the top part of the pyramid got to? I paid a lot of money for it and therefore I want it fitted right now!

Nathan viewed the list of extras gloomily. All the usual things! Greedy Egyptians doing their best to rip him off, well he was more than used to that by now! Nevertheless, he had no idea how much longer he would be and would tell the King so if he was given half a chance. He dragged his foot through a heap of sand and rubble. The problem was the labour. You just could not get skilled plasterers or hieroglyph painters anymore. As for additional costs, well they would be bound to rise once he started fiddling about with wardrobes and cupboards under stairs. Triangular doors in particular were a bastard to hang. The trouble there was the damned cedarwood which, whilst it smelled alright was a real swine to work with. Dovetails fell off and dowels dried before they ought to. A lot of the wood was unseasoned anyway and, in his opinion, really only suitable for making dildoes, pencils or matchsticks.

Well that dealt with points one two and three. Now for the catflap. He scuffed up a pile of rubble dismally when he recalled that several months ago he’d re-ordered this item and, upon opening the box had discovered that the one supplied was left handed. The delay in sending him a replacement, as he understood it from the girl at the manufacturers, was caused by the building of the Aswan High Dam or some such damn. They’d had awful trouble with the metrication of it too, he’d been told, when imperial sized water had leaked into the mechanism and rusted it. The story was, he suspected, entirely bollocks, but still, he knew, in an effort to find an excuse to disguise their useless incompetence the manufacturers would tell him just about anything.

That left question number five and to that he could honestly and truthfully say he had no idea where the top of the pyramid had got to. He had no plans for it himself other than to stick on the top of his massive stone creation and therefore he was at a loss to see how it might have any other use. No one in their right mind would steal it, he thought, so where the hell was the damn thing? With a heavy heart and an ancient analogue telephone he called the suppliers again only to receive the same answers from them. Answers so vague as to make him immediately suspicious. Answers both likely and unlikely (some indeed very unlikely so we won’t include them here)

Some of them, and he grimaced as he ticked them off on his fingers, were as follows:

It is on its way.

It has been lost, delayed or destroyed in the post.

It failed a drug test and has been confiscated.

It has been stolen by bandits.

It has been eaten by dragons, woodboring beetles or illegal immigrants.

We’ve forgotten to make it.

We made it but it got broken.

The butler is writing a story about it.

It has been mislaid by our subcontractors.

We made two of them but the wheels fell off.

We can’t get the rope.

What bloody pyramid?

Michael the Mighty huffed and puffed when he heard all this.

“No bonus for you my lad!” he said.

Next day, much to everyone’s surprise the poor old King upped and died.

As custom dictated they mummified him and the local women wailed put ashes on their heads while their menfolk squatted in the shade of the sphinx, shat in the sand and smoke dope.

Then, to Nathan’s utter amazement the catflap arrived in the post. However, the postman was unable to get it through the letterbox so he left it on the doorstep where it was trodden on by a passing camel.

Luckily Nathan managed to straighten it enough for it to be fitted. When the fitter arrived he came without his tools, borrowed one of Nathan’s axes and managed to break it but by nightfall two days later he was finished. Thankfully Nathan signed his worksheet and sighed with relief as the fitter went home. (It was only then that he discovered the catflap had been put in upside down)

That left only the problem of the missing pinnacle to be sorted out.

Hopefully Nathan searched again through the masses of junkmail littering his doorstep but as the Kingly cortege carted and the natives wailed wantonly he began to realised that, in spite of everything the pinnacle of his creation would probably never arrive.



They interred the King with all due cemerony, (similar to macaroni but without the tomatoes) heaping funerary goods richly and heavily all around him. Solid gold sofas, tables and chairs, camcorders and cellphones, all the usual things to assist his passage into the afterlife. Cases of wine, baskets of fruit and vegetables, joints of meat, sausages, several boxes of tinned Nubian haggis in date syrup (the King’s favourite) and a special, family size box of party poppers. Then, when they were done they carefully closed and sealed each of the four hundred and thirty seven doors in turn, smashing the ends off long plastic tubes so that tons of slithering sand trickled down in torrents to fill every annex, anteroom and cubbyhole. They cemented shut this and that and finally, with huge stone mallets they bashed a bunch of bronze bolts firmly and irrevocably home.

And when the very last, final tapering stone had been slid into place Nathan stepped back with a grunt of satisfaction to view his handiwork.

Everyone agreed it was a shame the pyramid was still unfinished, but Nathan, by now fed up and bored almost to tears, shrugged his shoulders and wearily made his way home.

Forty two and a half years non-stop that was what he’d put into it and still the King had died without giving him a single word of thanks. Nothing except a complaint about the missing pinnacle and the late arrival of the catflap. Now, forty two and a half years and two hundred and eighteen, or was it twenty three, free range children later, those complaints, he realised, were the only acknowledgement he was ever going to get.

He paused and turned to look at the truncated top of the mighty edifice behind him for the last time. It was too late to do anything about it now. Even if the pinnacle did arrive, there was no way he would be able to get it up there. The bright yellow JCBs and gigantic German mobile cranes were already trundling away through the sand dunes in the direction of the rows of sticks marking the route of the soon to be dug Suez canal, and his workmen, those that were left, were queuing up for their last payments, P45’s, a case of lager and a new pair of gloves.

“”Undred an’ eighty eight years ‘e lived!” a voice said at his side. “Then ‘e gets stuck in ‘is tomb without anyone botherin’ to put its top on!”

Nathan looked round and there stood Abdul.

Nathan nodded. “I expect we’ll have to wait another one hundred and eighty eight years for that to arrive. If it ever does!”

Abdul nodded “Yes Effendi, maybe. But my brother tells me they have made another one especially for you…….”

Have they?” Nathan asked eagerly.

Abdul nodded. “They have Effendi….. though there is something wrong with it………”

“Oh yes?” Nathan answered. “What?”

“Someone has got stuck inside it” Abdul told him.

“My brother, he say, it might take some time to put right. Apparently they can’t get the staff, you see……..”

Nathan nodded, “Just as I thought, another one hundred and eighty eight years before I get my bonus!”



© Aahlu. 2004

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