Meanwhile, In Oxford…

“Another drink, Sir?”

Boris, King of Oxford didn’t look like he needed another drink. He reclined in awkward repose upon a blue velvet 18th century chaise longue, resplendent in a silk Japanese robe and little else. Except for the crown, of course. One must not forget the crown. Boris never did. He turned his head towards the very nice man who was offering him another drink.

“A humble measure would suit me decorously, old bean!” Boris replied, with some enthusiasm.

His obliging companion was his permanently irritated butler, Snetterton. I say his butler – Snetterton had buttled at Blenheim Palace for over thirty years before King Boris had declared his sovereignty and booted out the Duke of Marlborough, claiming the estate as his own.

“And what form will the humble measure take this time, Sir?”

“Oh. Well – what was the last one?”

“The last one was a creme de menthe, Sir,” replied Snetterton, eyebrow twitching furiously. “The one before that, was a Pernod.”

Before the bemused Boris could answer, an almighty crash and shower of shattered glass erupted from the bay windows, encouraged no doubt by the trilby-wearing figure travelling through it apace. Boris sat up with a start, causing the silken robe to suppress yet less of his sturdy assemblage.  Snetterton tutted.

“It would appear that Mr Nigel Farage is here to see you, Sir.”

“Farage! Bing-bang-bully-o for that! Well, if it’s Farage invading my supplicatory shack I suppose it had better be pints all round, what!”

Snetterton effectuated the most subtle eye roll known to man.

“Certainly, Sir. Two pints of what, would you suggest?”

“Chablis, if you will, Snetterton. Cheesy Nige! You bugger!” Boris flung his arms wide, inviting a manly embrace.

King Boris had devised the nickname ‘Cheesy Nige’ from frequent and deliberate mispronunciations of ‘Farage’ as ‘fromage’. Farage tolerated it, on the grounds that he had been called far worse.

While Snetterton retreated to the drinks cabinet, Nigel got uneasily to his feet and limped towards what he deemed to be a distinctly uninviting-looking Boris. Keen to avoid any physical contact, Nigel perched himself at the far end of the chaise longue and cast furtive glances in the direction of an industrious Snetterton.

“Quite an entrance you made there, chum,” remarked Boris. “That calls for a drink! Huzzah!”

“It was your bloody dogs!” Nigel cried. “They chased me all the way from the bloody carpark.”

“It’s not a carpark, you ridiculous peasant, it is a sweeping approach.”

Snetterton returned with two magnificent pints of Chablis and the mood improved immediately.

“So, what word have you from the blasted Other Place?” asked Boris, hardly noticing that a small pool of Chablis had gathered in his navel.

“Well, they nicked my dusters for a start!”

“The bastards!”

“But they definitely do have Blair. He is tied to a chair in the kitchen at Number Ten.”

Boris took another gulp of wine, managing to keep most of it in the region of his mouth.

“Aha! Just. As. I. Thought!” Boris punctuated his proclamation with wild jabs of his enormous fist. “But how to winkle him out! What’s the security situation like? Big burly buggers brandishing blunderbusses and whatnot?”

“Well, there’s a rather erratic woman with a broom,” replied Nigel. “And the Chancellor of the Exchequer looks like he’s got a good right hook on him. Left hook too, really.”

“Hmmm, well…” Boris huffed contemplatively for a brief moment. “I’m not sure we’re up to taking on brooms and the ilk. Definitely not Chancellors, either. Vicious bastards.”

“I thought you were on the verge of going to war with them?” spluttered Nigel, almost spilling his pint. But not quite. Those years in the tree had taught him to preserve every precious drop.

“We-ll…” huffs became harrumphs as Boris sought the appropriate terminology. “It is one thing to be on the verge of war, and quite another to be actually at war. I can see how the simpler sorts might confuse the two, but let me be clear – it really is quite straightforward.”

“So – you’re not going to war, then?”

“Listen, listen – you know how it is, don’t you, you old roister-doister?” Boris almost toppled as he reached over to slap Nigel amiably on the back. “Old Bozza had been on the sauce with some bumchums from the Bullingdon and things got a bit out of hand, you might say. Ended up ringing the PM – carpe diem – and before you can say boo to a kipper, I’ve gone and got the big gun out. And then I declared war. Bahahahahahaaa!”

Boris slapped his naked thigh and allowed himself several moments of self-indulgent guffawing.

“Yes, and it’s not like the good old days where the Government could just cover these things up,” said Nigel, nodding.

“God, I miss a good Government cover-up,” sighed Boris, whistfully.

Nigel laughed.

“My favourite one was where they managed to suppress the fact that Cherie Blair and Pete Doherty were actually one person.”

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Government cover-up

“But anyway, it’s quite the pickle I now find in my sandwich – make no mistake about it!” Boris motioned for Snetterton to refill their glasses.

“Might I make a suggestion, Sir?” Snetterton asked, plucking his master’s glass rather forcefully from his hand. “If you are not going to war, then perhaps you should try the other method.”

“The other method?” Boris creased his brow, before it hit him. “Aha! Right you are! Well, that particular area is Bozza’s eminent dominion, I shall get right on it.”

A small groan from Snetterton.

“Sir, I was thinking of diplomacy.”

“Oh, that.” Boris dropped his shoulders just slightly. “No doubt I can incorporate elements of statecraft into my offensive, if I really am compelled to do so, but really, Snetterton, you should know me by now.”

“Indeed, Sir.”

“So what are you actually going to do?” Nigel asked, really getting into his stride with the Chablis, now.

“Why, I shall do no more than seduce the Prime Minister!” Boris roared, triumphantly. “By the loins of Eros, I shall settle our dispute not with the art of war but with the art of love. Well, the art of a naughty fumble, perhaps. Nonetheless, in the hands of King Boris she will be as that stuff that holds the windows in.”

“Putty, Sir.”

“Don’t be so disgusting, Snetterton.”

“Are you really sure that will work?” Nigel squinted, doubtful.

“Absolutely it will!” Boris jumped to his feet. “Belts off, trousers down and diplomatic relations will be restored in less time than it takes to boil an egg. Huzzah!”

“Huzzah indeed, Sir.”


67 thoughts on “Meanwhile, In Oxford…

      1. What about through two or three windows then? Just a thought. Yes, challenging images indeed. So challenging, that they’ve left me wondering whether it might not be too early for a restorative glass of something.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. *makes notes* More windows. Got it. Thanks, Mick. Well, it’s 4 o’clock somewhere, isn’t it. And that silk robe would induce anyone to reach for a small medicinal. In fact, make it a large one.

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      1. Wow I am rather pleased at the Blackadder references, although I shall try to inject a little originality in there too 😀 But Snetterton as Blackadder is a great place to start. Love Lord Flashheart! Boris isn’t quite as heroic but I can totally see it!! 😀

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      2. Flashheart and Queenie are my all time favourite Blackadder characters! I’m sure there will be tons of originality in the forthcoming tale, I imagine Boris is much more bumbling and blustering at times anyway, rather than a constant ‘slap your thigh’ pantomime act. However, should you ever require the health minister to have a plotline, feel free to give me the voice of Queenie – only child syndrome and all that! 😉

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      1. one for all and all for one, the muskerhounds are always ready…
        one for all and all for one, helping every body…

        I am attempting to chase the mental images out with a handy ear worm!

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  1. So…firstly…this is like, well funny and stuff; sweeping driveway line sublime! Secondly, yes, I can see where all the Blackadder comments are coming from; Nigel Planer would play a great farage 🙂 but it’s still very much you; and I don’t believe for a second you’ll have any problems writing the seduction scene, if anything you’ll end up needing to make it shorter!

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    1. Well, thank you! Always pleased to raise a smile. Nigel as Nigel – I can see it now! Maybe Tony Slattery as Boris? But who would be Snetterton? Having never written a seduction scene before, I thought it was about time. And who better than to lose my literary virginity to than Boris, King of Oxford? Actually, there are probably lots of better options, but it looks likely it will be him. Hmm.

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      1. I think the mental image of King Boris in a loose-fitting robe rather distracted from the rest of the post, to be honest! And hoity-toity is exactly what we need – maybe even a moustache.

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      2. Lucky you!! Oh yes, he would be wonderful, as long as we could make him appear older. He is properly posh. I take your point about the moustache. I am in the habit of trying to give as many characters as possible moustaches. Poirot fixation from an early age, see.

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      3. All men should attempt at least one moustache in their lifetime, I believe. And ladies too, if they feel like it. I would definitely have one, but nothing grows there, sadly. Oh bugger – I shall ask a posh old boy from the village, then.

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      4. I’m sporting the full beard thing at the moment now that I don’t have to look presentable for idiots I don’t know! You’ll get one in time, don’t you worry, and then you’ll need to find some children to kiss, they bloody love it. Posh old village boy will have to do…with perhaps a monocle?

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      5. Sounds good! Bet it keeps the face warm, now the weather has turned a bit nippy. Beards smell lovely. I await the day I get a moustache with trembling anticipation. Monocle! Perfect!

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  2. Goodness! It turned into a veritable horror story at the end there! If there’s one thing worse than an amorous Boris, it must be an amorous Boris in an ill-fitting Japanese robe!! I hope the Prime Minister has kept up to date with her self-defence classes… *shudders*

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    1. I know, I am getting in early for Halloween 😉 By the way, I had a quick glance at the Horowitz over breakfast yesterday… and there went most of my day!! My goodness, it is SO GOOD. Christie herself would weep with joy at such a book. What a writer he is *swoons*

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      1. It’s fab, isn’t it?? He’s so great – I really wish that he’d done the new Poirots, but failing that I’m getting up a petition to make him write an entire series of Atticus Pund books… wanna sign?

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      2. I will sign at once! Atticus Pund is the new Poirot, and his assistant James Fraser is surely the new Hastings- and I don’t say that lightly! *epic swoon* Quite frankly he makes me embarrassed to call myself a writer. But at least there is a bar to aim for 🙂 Surely a knighthood beckons? Arise, Sir Anthony!

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      3. Yep, they’re brilliant as a ‘tec and sidekick – close enough to the old Golden Age stuff without at all being pastiche. And the plotting is just incredibly complicated! He’s definitely one who’d be worth emulating for all writers. I must read some of his children’s books sometime – have you read any of them?

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  3. I hear ‘King Boris’ is never sure if he’s in or out and likes a late entry with a fanfare … fortunately always through the front door … had enough of the rear door thing at school no doubt. I’m conjuring up the great seduction scene … why is the ‘hokey cokey’ rattling my mind!

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