**This post concerns themes of an adult nature -and also politicians – therefore should not be read by anyone of a delicate disposition and especially not by my mum**
Wing Commander Tom was an imposing sight with his fedora pulled low over his face and the line of his perfect blue suit spoiled only by the hint of a gun holster across his manly chest. All he revealed of himself was the corner of a wry smile.
Sir Edd and Ian were mute with alarm.
“I said, gentlemen, that your plan is stupid and will never work.”
Wing Commander Tom was the enigmatic top chap at the Cambridge Intelligence Agency and the man responsible for single-handedly capturing Tony Blair. He was said to be the most handsome man in Cambridge, but no one could really tell you what he looked like. He had mysterious down to an art.
“Not that it matters, I suppose,” Tom continued. “I’m here now. And it is my job to protect the best interests of the Prime Minister. At any cost. And believe me, gentlemen, you two are just small change.” Tom very much gave the impression that he was arching an eyebrow. “I’ll be seeing you, no doubt.”
With that, Wing Commander Tom waltzed out of the room, leaving Sir Edd and Ian trying to decide if they were absolutely furious or slightly impressed.
“Smug bastard,” muttered Sir Edd.
“Never mind about him,” replied Ian. “No one even knows what he does. All we need to worry about is upsetting everyone.”
And upsetting everyone was certainly not going to be a problem tonight, not with the artfully constructed guest list over-seen by Sir Edd Evans-Morley. As he nursed a very small glass of sherry (there was no way he was risking the gin), Sir Edd surveyed the scene before him. The room in fact looked fairly passable in this low lighting, the oak panelling suitably swathed in false gravitas, which was undermined only slightly by the hastily erected bunting. The furniture was certainly of excellent quality, which was a good job as the recently returned Foreign Secretary Harry Cobeans was stood on a chair, reciting a rather salty limerick with great enthusiasm.
Cobeans was an undeniably affable man, but he was loud, and not of University stock, so he was bound to irk The Other Place.
Similarly so for fellow special guest Alfie Dacre, Secretary of State for Education. Except that he was unnervingly quiet and not of University stock. He had been to university, just not the right one. He also had a way of delivering his insults with such understated Celtic charm that it would take Boris and friends a moment to realise they had been insulted. They would hate that.
The Prime Minister herself was of no concern. Left to gin and her own devices, she would systematically insult every single person in the room before falling asleep in the fireplace, as is her custom. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was fully on board and mercilessly mocking the poor trouser choice of the esteemed guests. There were, unfortunately, several of the more sensible Cabinet members present, but it wouldn’t matter. Enough damage would be done.
As Sir Edd waved away a platter of incinerated chicken wings, fresh from the barbecue, he savoured that unrivalled satisfaction of the moment at which everything is about to come together. And well he might. Because things got rather more difficult from there on in.
Meanwhile, in the first floor cloakroom, King Boris and Nigel Farage were finalising their novel approach to negotiation.
“Right, so we’re all go for Operation Rumpy-Pumpy, are we?” asked Nigel, excitedly.
“Yes…” King Boris paused. “Hang on, what do you mean ‘we’? It’ll be old Bozza doing the honours tonight old chap, don’t forget who’s King!”
“Yes. But. I mean, you’ll need a witness, won’t you, to witness the – ahem – consummation of the agreement,” Nigel nodded encouragingly. “You know, make it extra legal and whatnot.” Nigel pulled what he hoped was a sincere expression. “It will seem more… authentic.”
“I was rather hoping you would be snaffling Blair out the back door whilst yours truly was giving it the old in-out.”
“I’m not going near that woman with the broom, “ Nigel shuddered. Boris sighed.
“Alright, alright. So – negotiations! I’ll agree to whatever little piffles the PM thinks she’s got tucked up her Rupert Neve, give it a good royal stamping, so to speak, then whisk her away for several minutes of another kind of royal stamping! Huzzah!”
“Yes.” Although Nigel responded in the affirmative, his tone was anything but. “Two things worry me. The first thing – what if she doesn’t agree to the – er- royal stamping? The second one, I mean, because obviously she’s going to agree to you signing her agreement…”
“Oh, hush, Nigel.” Boris was not amused. “I’ve already thought of that. In the highly unlikely scenario that she doesn’t fall at once beneath my sovereign spell, I shall befuddle her with bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo about it being law or something.”
“Hm. I’m still not entirely convinced that three minutes of sweaty fumbling is going to convince her that our kingdoms should work together.”
“Oh pish-posh. I’ll make it four, then.”
Coincidentally, Dr Martens and the Prime Minister were discussing their own strategy. Quite a bit of gin had been consumed by this point, so the dialogue – such as it was – would be difficult to convey. But the atmosphere in Lucy’s office was certainly upbeat and she felt certain that she could convince King Boris to sign her agreement. After that, everything was bound to go brilliantly. The logic of home brewed gin was difficult to refute.
“Now then, Dr Martens,” Lucy began, unintentionally rambunctious. “I want you to go and find Boris and give him this enormous glass of gin,” to illustrate the point, she slammed a pint glass filled almost all the way with damson gin on the desk. “Then, bring him to me here and our negotiations can being.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” replied the loyal Minister for Good Ideas & Gin. “And may I say, what an utterly brilliant plan this is. I’m really enjoying it so far.”
“It’s rather good, isn’t it?” replied Lucy. “And it gets better. After this, I’m going to get out the karaoke machine.”
“Brilliant, Prime Minister.”
And the plan got off to a stupendous start. King Boris accepted his beverage with good grace and, it must be said, a great deal of enthusiasm. He merrily signed Lucy’s proposed peace treaty, overseen by the ever vigilant Nigel Farage. When it came to making it legal under Oxford law, there was a degree of resistance, but it was minimal. You see, one of the perceived drawbacks of excess inebriation is that everything seems like a fairly good idea and even the most indiscriminate of suggestions can appear most reasonable. Legality by coitus did briefly strike the Prime Minister as being somewhat circumspect, but when explained by notorious trouser-dropper King Boris it did sound fairly legitimate. Besides. Politics was rife with flagitious romping, wasn’t it, so she might as well get used to it. She still wasn’t entirely convinced that Nigel had to be present to make it absolutely legal, but it seemed a small price to pay for the first step to saving the United Kingdom. Actually, it was quite a hefty price, considering, but being Prime Minister was all about making sacrifices. And Nigel was here, now, unexpectedly naked, in bed with her and Boris.
Lucy felt a little embarrassed that she hadn’t hoovered the bedroom and was now entertaining not one but two heavyweight political figures in her boudoir. Still. No one seemed to be paying the floor much attention. She couldn’t remember exactly how or when she became naked, but it was more important right now to concentrate on not being sick. That could upset arbitrations considerably. This wasn’t easy, wrapped in the embrace of an unclad King Boris, particularly as she was very aware of Nigel Farage behind her, a lot closer than she would have personally chosen. Lucy was at that moment incredibly grateful for the coma-inducing quantities of gin that had been consumed that day.
Smiling, Boris, King of Oxford ran a firm hand slowly along the curve of her hip, sweeping downwards to cup her trembling buttock. He placed his lips to her ear and whispered something filthy in Latin. Lucy let out a frightened squeal. Boris crinkled his brow and looked over to Farage.
“Nigel! What did I tell you about deploying the rear guard action…”
“I haven’t touched her!” Nigel protested.
“It’s not that,” said Lucy, eternally relieved that the rear guard action had not been deployed. “There’s a creepy old man in the corner of the bedroom!”
Boris corkscrewed his neck to take a peek. He rolled his eyes.
“Oh, that’s just my butler, Snetterton. He comes everywhere with me, just ignore him.”
Snetterton returned a knowing wink that was somehow the least palatable thing in this whole sorry scene. Lucy narrowed her eyes. He might be quite elderly, but thanks to the wonders of medical science the elderly were dangerously sprightly these days. They could be up and under like a rat up a drainpipe if you weren’t careful, as Lucy had discovered to her cost. Mind you, in current circumstances a randy butler was the least of her worries.
“And now, Prime Minister, let us finalise our great and historical concordat…”
King Boris enveloped the Prime Minister in a vast osculation that put her in mind of drowning in a sheep dip. Boris was a large man, in every respect, and notably possessed a tongue like a cow, which Lucy briefly thought could be quite an advantage in certain situations. As she felt the moment of inevitability (among other things) inescapably upon her, Lucy prepared to submit herself to the higher aggregates of diplomacy.
But then, the bedroom door burst open and they found themselves unexpectedly joined by a highly agitated Sir Edd. On surveying the scene before him, his agitation spiralled through a cacophony of emotions, beginning with bemusement and kaleidoscoping through disgust, amazement and a touch of jealousy with expressive aplomb.
“We’ve got enough witnesses, thank you!” snapped Nigel, frantically waving him away.
“Prime Minister, you must come quickly,” Sir Edd fumbled the words as best he could. Boris gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.
“Aha! I was just about to say the very thing.”
“Prime Minister,” continued the Cabinet Secretary. “It’s Tony Blair. He has been shot. In fact, he is dead.”