Satire and the new serfdom

In which I crack no jokes at all because this is serious stuff ...

I don’t need to make references to scholars or poets or sociologists because I see this happening around me: in the UK, Europe — and (most likely) world-wide.

I’m talking about what amounts to indentured labour. Yes, people have employment rights and contracts. And they have recourse to the process of law (at least in the UK and Europe). They also get paid, have the right to employment tribunals and lots of other stuff.

But life is so expensive these days and some people are in so much debt they can’t afford to leave jobs they hate — and what’s worse, jobs in which they are actively abused by unscrupulous employers.

As repugnant as all forms of people-trafficking and abuse are, I’m not talking about circumstances as extreme as those. But that doesn’t make certain situations any better.

Serfdom: is it better delivered over the internet?

I’m talking about a private tutor in a middle-European country threatened with destitution and revocation of his visa by his employer unless he works for 50% of the going rate. A digital designer in Southern Europe being sent abusive emails by a company owner who knows the designer needs money to feed his kids. Or a sales person in the UK refused any kind of pay rise or bonus for seven years — but who can’t afford the risk of taking a new job they might lose, being dependent on their sub-minimum wage job for food and heating.

I don’t know how to solve this. But what I’ve seen inspired me to write the tale (excerpt below) of a Welding Process Engineer called Stephan Botibol who gets revenge on Sebastian “Lofty” Penn - his vain, stupid, spoiled and arrogant boss…

excerpted from“A Riveting Tale”, (AN Editions, March ‘25)

Lofty greets the clients and leads them straight to the workshop, Stephan Botibol following like a spaniel hungry for a treat.

“We want to show you our latest innovation”, Lofty explains as he checks his reflection in the workshop’s reinforced window, tugging at an imaginary double chin. “Our initial research suggests it removes the need for riveting in airframes. And I must credit our Welding Process Lead, Stephan Botibol, who worked with me on this design. I’ll hand over to Stephan for the demo. Let her rip!”

Ignoring Lofty’s paean of pseudo-praise, Stephan taps up an app on his phone. Stephan looks at the clients in their sharp black suits and pastel ties and puts on his toniest accent.

“We’ve set up two metal plates with rivets inserted in the joins. Just tap the app – the rivets explode, melt and bind the metal sheets together. Ready?”

The senior guy on the client side shuffles his feet. At the other end of the workshop, the two sheets of metal with the exploding rivets in them hang silently in the air like judges about to pass sentence.

Botibol taps his phone. A massive bang – the roof and two walls are blown into the next county – which is Norfolk, as it happens. Dust and smoke fill the air. Lofty’s clients are tossed against the wall by the blast, and Lofty himself cops a concussion.

Amid the heat and dust, Stephan Botibol grabs the insurance document Lofty had tried to pass off as his partnership papers. He’d already named himself as the beneficiary and signed the document with Lofty’s signature stolen from their shared drive.

Before the smoke clears, he’s heading for the car park. He gets in his sensible Kia and sets off to join his sensible wife and children who wait for him at Heathrow. He’ll be making a full claim against Lofty’s policy from Morocco – a country that has never signed an extradition agreement with Britain. Vengeance is mine, he thinks as he turns onto the motorway. Vengeance is mine, and Lofty will pay.

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