Wing Commander Tom Reveals His Plan

Minister for Good Ideas & Gin Dr Samantha Martens was not, as a rule, a nervous person. But right now, Wing Commander Tom was making her nervous. She couldn’t quite fathom how a man who kept his face covered with his hat was able to convey quite such a threatening demeanour. But then, the events – not to mention the gin – from last night were sitting heavily in her mind. She wasn’t quite her usual chipper self. Dr Martens gripped the arms of her chair and wished she was anywhere but the Cabinet office as Tom came and sat on the table, right by her.

“So you see that’s my really menacing look – well, it’s not really a look, is it, but you know what I mean – it’s the very look I shall be using during my interrogations this afternoon,” Tom was very pleased with himself, it seemed. “It never fails.”

“I imagine not!” Dr Martens spluttered, looking around for her tea and the ubiquitous plate of biscuits that resembled a kind of cornucopia for baked goods. As she reached for her tea, the great doors of the Cabinet office were ripped asunder by a lively King Boris and Nigel Farage singing a rude song about rowing, charging towards the biscuits. The ensuing shock of Dr Martens and Tom sent tea and biscuits flying across the table and, in the case of some unfortunate custard creams, all over the carpet.

“Buggeration!” exclaimed King Boris

“Never mind about that,” Prime Minister Lucy Wastell swept in behind him and pushed him out of her way. She spied a custard cream near her foot. She bobbed down, scooping it up. “Two second rule!”

As the slightly fluffy biscuit was devoured, Minister for Unlikely Events Hugh Roberts wandered in, closely followed by Sir Edd and Home Secretary Vicky Kirby. The rest of the Cabinet were moments away, but King Boris noticed that someone was missing.

“I say, have any of you chaps seen my man Snetterton?” he asked, brow so deeply furrowed that his crown tipped perilously forward. Sir Edd glided to his side, smiling.

“He is buttling, your Highness,” he replied, adopting a most disarming tone.

“What do you mean, he’s buttling?” yelped King Boris. “He is my butler, I tell you, he buttles for me!”

“He is a butler, your Highness,” Sir Edd continued. “Butlers buttle. It is simply what they do. One cannot hope to stop them.”

“You two!” Lucy thrust a finger in the direction of Boris and Sir Edd. “Stop talking nonsense. We’ve got a lot to be getting on with. Now – everyone settle down and listen to Wing Commander Tom. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

Lucy took her usual central seat at the head of the table. She found a blank piece of paper among the various documents before her and, borrowing a pen from Sir Edd, wrote the date across the top. Tom stood and once again addressed the Cabinet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have quite the predicament before us, but you can rest assured that the Cambridge Intelligence Agency have everything very much in hand. Preliminary intelligence gathering operations have been implemented and security is tighter than a gnat’s chuff. There really is nothing to be concerned about at this stage…”

Tom was interrupted mid-flow by the late arrival of Trade Minister Simon Daley and Chancellor Ian Risk. They scuttled in apologetically and took their seats with some contrition. Ian sat next to Lucy and she noticed that little pools of water were gathering at his feet. The collar of his shirt was also damp. Tom continued.

“As I was saying. Everything is in hand. By the close of play today I shall have the initiatory statements from my team, which will tell me who I need to speak to about what. The medics in the basement have almost completed their report, so I shall be examining that also. In the meantime, I shall be interr- er – interviewing those persons present at the scene last night. And, of course, Prime Minister, I will require a private briefing with your good self at your earliest convenience.”

“I shall make myself convenient to you at the very earliest,” Lucy replied.

“Excellent. I will also need to speak to the Home Secretary about some practical matters.” Tom took a breath, bathing for a moment in the admiring gratitude of the assembled Cabinet. Not so much Nigel and Boris, is has to be said. “For now, the media blackout remains in place and incarceration of all present will continue until further notice. I suggest you all think very carefully about everything you saw and heard last night. The tiniest detail could very well be the most important.”

Most of the Cabinet couldn’t even remember anything from the night before, let alone think carefully about it. But all in all, sitting around having a think was fine by them, especially if the thinking could be done whilst eating and drinking, or possibly with eyes closed. Boris and Nigel were the last to leave, exchanging worried glances as they watched Wing Commander Tom and the Prime Minister make their way towards her private office.

And where the bloody hell was Snetterton?

145 thoughts on “Wing Commander Tom Reveals His Plan

    1. In declensions: I buttle, you buttle, he/she/it buttles; we buttle, you (pl) buttle, they buttle. It is a simple yet beautiful verb and I am adamant that it shall be recognised! Even if it does send my auto-correct crazy 😉

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    1. Your gorgeous hats could give Tom’s hats a run for their money any day 😉
      Yes! For the very first time everyone has their clothes on! Hurrah! I actually typed Bernards twice when writing this, proving that it is indeed a real word 😀 Note that Bernards were not wasted, thanks to the Two Second Rule, surely the greatest piece of legislation ever conceived.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. hahaha yeay!! Bernards is officially part of the language!! 😀
        The two second rule is indeed a fabulous piece of legislation… especially as it leads to no wasted Bernards or worse…Bernards being trodden into the carpet!!

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      2. Noooo! Bernards must never meet such a terrible fate! It is a tragedy for them and for the carpet also. In fact I believe there is a clause in the Two Second Rule that exempts Bernards from the 2 second time limit, thereby avoiding such calamities.

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      1. If he gives me his money and power, he can have a feel of my punt. If he intends to keep hold of his money and power, punts are off limits. Anyway, ugly guys always have alcohol to fall back on where the ladies are concerned.


      2. Ah yes, I just realised that I don’t know what you look like. In the likely scenario that you are not ugly enough, perhaps you could wear one of those Trump masks? In which case, better make it two bottles.


      3. Aha, that is actually you! Yes, I’m afraid you’re going to need the mask. And the moustache only adds to your attractiveness, so make sure you don’t have one. Please do cause as much destruction to our sworn enemy the Co-op as you can – long live the mighty Spar!


      4. But if he grabs the punts, won’t he have to grab the poles too??? (wait, I might be assuming that punts are those little boats that you English so quaintly push around between white swans on your rivers and lakes with a long pole… if punts use oars, I do apologize… and, ironically, in America, I believe that a ‘punt’ is a kick to the balls… [a short kick of the ovaloid American ‘football’]… )…


      5. Very well done, dear Art – a punt is indeed a nice little boat that you push along with a pole. In Cambridge, one punts from the rear of the boat, pushing it through the water – the proper way. The philistines at Oxford punt from the front – dragging their boats through the water like the degenerate heathens that they are. Quite possibly. A punt also means to kick a ball, and also to place a bet or gamble on something. A very versatile little word that when misheard can sound quite rude. I love it.


      6. So, your choices are to kick someone in the knackers or in the knickers? Also, I think you meant ‘little Yankee friend’… unless you are implying excessive self-gratification, in which case, spot on!

        Liked by 1 person

      7. knick, knack, paddywhack, give the dog a bone. This is an English nursery rhyme that I think means that should should go out stealing, punch an Irishman and then… yeah, with the dog.


  1. In our household we bittle. Nothing to do with buttling however. The little dog is called Snowy. Snowy Bowey. And Little Bittle One. So naturally he Little Bittles. Or just, Bittles. Bittling involves jumping on the furniture and the people and biting ears, hair and knocking off glasses. It is important to acknowledge use of new words. Buttling is good. Snowy might even volunteer to bittle the butler.

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      1. Indeed. We should all jump up and bite ears and faces and hair. But only consensually. Although the main Bittler doesn’t care about consent.

        I suspect bittling – or worse! – may have already been indulged in during the dubious peace taks/treat, I mean treaty/whatevers.

        Bittle on 🙂 Just not now. Chief Bittler is taking his siesta. He also wants to know, if there is a cat at number ten, WHERE IS THE DOG? He is applying. Ahora mismo. Well, he is Spanish after all.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Please do give my very best to the Chief Bittler. The position of Number Ten dog is currently vacant and the little chap seems to have some very desirable skills indeed. Please do tell him to take up position as soon as it suits.


      1. That does sound pretty nasty. I am glad you are battling through. It is chilly here too and raining today, which is not ideal. However, apart from the ubiquitous British weather, I am fine and dandy 🙂

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