My prime ministers and I
At the age of twenty one I took off for Australia, a ten pound Pom with sixty quid in my pocket, I did not know this at the time but this was the start of an incredible life of travel and strange incidents, fortunately we can not see into the future, otherwise I would probably joined a monastery. The first of my incidents was when I went to live on an uninhabited Island in the Indian Ocean. All went well until a helicopter landed next to me, the pilot announcing that he had come to rescue me. I did not want to be rescued, but there is no arguing with some people, so I got into the contraption, the chopper had a glass front and mine was on display as I was stark nked at the time.
Life continued in it’s customary sedate pattern when I found myself in Iran. Unfortunately there was a revolution going on at the time, it was a brief visit, but not entirely unadventurous, a revolution is not a vicarage tea party. One lives and one learns, but then I never have. Next was Baghdad where I designed the concrete used in Saddam’s bunkers. The following years were spent all over the Middle East, from Pakistan to Libya. One of the most fascinating places I worked in was Siberia, where the hotel I lived in had been taken over by the mafia, they had filled one floor with hookers. Well, one endeavours to keep one’s end up under trying circumstances.
It was not all hookers and wars. In the nineties I came a cropper, and ended up sleeping in a cardboard box on the streets of London during the depths of winter. When life deals you a bum hand, you can do one of two things, quit or fight back. I am not a quitter. I hauled myself back up life’s ladder. My First novel was published in 2004, I do not know what the future holds for me, but you can be sure of one thing, it will not be dull.
tired of being undermined by the government, the Queen decides to abdicate; the announcement of this is leaked via the Daily Telegraph. In rapid sequence, each of her successors does the same, down to Princess Beatrice, a minor, who must have a regent. The Queen and her family depart for Canada, of which she remains Queen, Elizabeth II only abdicated as Queen of the United Kingdom, she also retained possession of the Crown Estates, and had given the Prime Minister notice to quit 10 Downing Street.
From Canada, HM announces that she has signed a deal with a New York publisher for her memoirs based on dossiers the intelligence services have compiled on her various first ministers.
In London things are falling apart, the people are angry at the abdications, they blame the political establishment for the loss of their Queen. As for the Government, it is in a panic over the economy which is about to depart on extended leave, while the Health Service is about to fulfil it’s destiny and implode. The Regent, a randy old slapper, whose only talent is running off with other women’s husbands, is causing great resentment with her hoity toity airs.
The situation is made far worse by the political meddling of the Prime Ministers wife, Wincarnis; her parents named her Wincarnis because they thought Port and lemon to common and Sherry too middle class.
Seeing the way the wind was blowing and the fact that it might blow a few votes their way, the politicians rediscover their affection for the Monarchy. The Deputy Prime Minister is despatched to Canada to obtain the endorsement of Her Majesty, the lady tells him to clear off, Princess Anne gives the man a shiner.
The Government is forced to call an election, which it looses, but the Queen declines the invitations to return until certain constitutional changes are made which would curb the power of the politicians, a course of action they are determined not to take.
The stalemate is broken by Welsh businessman Bonvilston Evans-Prothero, who bankrolls a referendum. The people vote for the acceptance of the Queens conditions, but the Government is still resistant. A national strike ensues, the politicians barricade themselves in the Houses of Parliament, besieged by the angry voters. When the food and drink finally runs out, they pass the legislation curbing their powers.
The Queen returns in triumph, and Bonvilston fully expected to be made a Duke as a reward for his services, which he would have been, had he not been caught, late one night, behind the bushes in Bloomsbury Square, trousers around his ankles while blowing a rent boys trumpet.
The Queen and her spouse were not the only inhabitants of the stratosphere to be found reading the Truth that morning, the chief citizens of Downing Street were having a good sniff at the knickers of British journalism, and, like their counterparts accross the park, they had been tipped the wink, and not by any old snout either; they had been told what to look for by no less a person than Bondi Patterson himself, proprietor not only of the Daily Truth, but of far too great a chunk of the British media to be considered healthy. The man had started off as an Australian, tinkered with becoming a Canadian, but ended up an American. In spite of these lush meanderings through the byways of various nationalities, the man remained true to himself; periodic changes of passport had altered him not. To those who knew and understood the extent of his talents, he was the true blue ocker, to those who did not work for him, and were confident they would never have to, the fellow would always be the Windarra wanker. The relationship between the Prime Minister and Bondi could most graphically be described as one of mutual masturbation behind the parliamentary bike shed.
Bondi had provided generous funding for the Prime Ministers party, but more importantly he had instructed his editors to proclaim that there was no need for our dear Lord to undertake a second coming now that Alfred Sawse was leading the Labour Party, and who would, on winning the election, lead the nation to the promised land; the electorate, daft bastards that they were, swallowed that line with an eagerness vouchsafed only to the truly gullible; Sawse was returned with a landslide majority and the Truth promptly kissed the man’s arse by dubbing him Alfred the Great, but those who knew the fellow, did not take long to asses his performance, to them he became H.P., all sauce and no bottle.
A large section of his party regarded the Prime Minister with that special concentration of loathing they reserved for middle class Tories who joined the socialists to assuage the rampant guilt they felt for having inherited their prosperity, the sort who instinctively tried to turn the red flag into the official banner of Volvo land. Alfred Sawse was the perfect identikit for the type. Now, to be blunt, to be very blunt in fact, our Alf was not overloaded with brains, indeed, there were some of an uncharitable bent who opined that it was as well for the continuance of his marriage that he had more between his legs than he did between his ears. Dim as he was, Alf acknowledged the loathing a significant section of his party felt for him, and you know what? He could not give a fig, for he could not stand them either. To Alf, the party was a means to an end. Prime Minister Sawse was not lacking in political nous however, it was the one field in which he could be said to excel, he might despise the parliamentary shock troops, but he recognised the distressing necessity of keeping them on side and trimmed his sails accordingly.
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