In the early eighties Jonah Lewie assured us that you would always find him in the kitchen at parties. Had he been at Number Ten, however, he would have kept well out of the way of the kitchen and we would have been denied an important part of musical history. Honestly, the things that go on in that kitchen.
The back door opened and through it four sinister-looking scientists in crisp white lab coats and face masks came stomping into the kitchen. They appeared purposeful and official, but their conversation didn’t sound very scientific. There were far too many four-letter words and giggles to be completely convincing.
“A brilliant plan, if I may say so, Prime Minister!”
The tallest of the scientists removed his mask, but the carefully placed fedora on his head gave him away as Wing Commander Tom. The littlest scientist removed her mask also.
“Thank you, Wing Commander!” replied Lucy. “I can’t believe the press fell for it. But then again, in my experience disguises never fail. Now then, we all deserve a proper cup of tea after all that. Where’s Mumsie?”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Dr Martens, Minister for Good Ideas & Gin. Flinging off her scientist apparel she rushed over to the sideboard, where Deputy Prime Minister Terry the cat was doing his best to remove a leg from the unattended raw chicken.
Terry turned one eye towards her and made a guttural, un-godly sound. What few teeth he had left remained clamped around the buttery flesh. Dr Martens thought for a moment. She was an engineer, a simple solution would surely soon present itself. Then again, removing cats from raw chicken could be a complicated business. She reached out to pick him up, but Lucy offered a word of warning.
“Don’t squeeze him too hard, Sam. He’s a bit, er, leaky.”
From the pantry a sudden, raucous roar erupted, sending Terry scooting towards the garden as fast as his arthritic legs would carry him, almost knocking over a startled Chancellor of the Exchequer, Ian Risk.
“Bloody hell, what was that?”
Ian was still wearing his lab coat. It really was an ingenious disguise for him as his distinctive vivid vestments were hidden completely.
Wing Commander Tom withdrew his gun from beneath his immaculate jacket and headed for the pantry door. Lucy felt her knees weaken a little. There was something about a man who was confident with his weapon. He kicked the door open and dived through, firing a warning shot into the air as he did so. There was a squeal, and a considerable section of the ceiling dutifully obeyed Newton and scattered itself across the flagstone floor. Tom looked up through the falling plaster and dust and was disappointed.
“Oh. It’s you lot.”
“Buggering blunderbusses Thomas! Whatever is the matter with you man?” Boris, King of Oxford was a regal shade of puce. “Is it too much to ask that you don’t put a chap in mind of vacating his bowels every time you enter a room? Poor Nigel’s only got one pair of undercrackers to his name, you know.”
“Yes, that’s true actually.”
Before Nigel Farage could elaborate on this sad set of circumstances, Lucy rushed into the pantry, flanked by Dr Martens and Ian. The scene that presented itself was probably the worst one yet, which when you consider the myriad of disturbing scenes she had witnessed in her short tenure as PM, is quite a thing. Not only were the food supplies now covered in bits of roof, but Mumsie appeared in a state of advanced dishevelment, wrapped in the arms of Boris’ butler, Snetterton. Worse, it seemed that Boris and Nigel were spectating.
She wanted to ask what the bloody hell was going on, but the words refused to come. A rare moment of chivalry came over Boris and he turned to the Prime Minister, hands cupped before him in an effort to appear contrite.
“Prime Minister, I am most dreadfully sorry but circumstances seem to imply that an apology is urgently due,” Boris licked his lips and made an attempt at doe-eyed. “It very much looks like my butler might have boffed your mother whilst I wasn’t looking…”
“Yes, he might at least have had the decency to boff her when we were looking…”
“Shut up, Nigel. This is a terrible blunder of decorum and etiquette towards a gracious host such as yourself. I really am very sorry. I can only imagine that boffing is just a few steps away from buttling and the old boy got carried away with his duties.”
Lucy glared at Mumsie, who had at least disentangled herself from Snetterton and rearranged herself into something approaching respectability.
“I can explain, dear,” she said to Lucy. “Let’s have a nice cup of tea and I’ll tell you everything.”
Lucy sighed. All things considered, this really wasn’t such a pressing concern. And nowhere near as unsavoury as her own peace treaty antics. She shook her head.
“We haven’t got time for this now,” said Lucy. “First things first – I need Mick Canning, my Minister for Culture, Media & Sport.” Lucy turned to Dr Martens. “You two were super dealing with the press before, so I’d like you to tackle them once again.”
“Of course, Prime Minister,” Dr Martens replied.
“This time we really should shoot them,” Tom interjected.
“No. I intend to make a statement to the press, before they make up their own stories.” Lucy huffed. “We need to deal with this head on. Then, we can get on with finding out who shot Tony Blair and implementing my brilliant National Economic Security and Recovery Act. Sam, bring Mick to my office and we shall formulate a plan. And bring gin.”
Lucy and Dr Martens left the pantry as quickly as they could. Mumsie straightened her blouse and murmered something about getting on with with the dinner, before heading to the kitchen to rescue the chicken. Snetterton displayed his usual impenetrable demeanour, but he could not disguise his discomfort completely.
“Snetterton! You randy old dog!” There was more than a hint of pride in Boris’ voice. “I never knew you had it in you! But I really can’t allow such a social slight to slide, so I’m going to take you out the back for a damn good thrashing, just for the look of the thing. Alright?”
“Very good, your Highness”
“Good. Then Nige and I can get on with our detecting. I feel we’re close to solving the case.”
“As you say, your Highness.”
Snetterton followed Boris to wherever constituted ‘out the back’, leaving Nigel and Ian alone in the pantry.
“There is a very distinctive aroma about that lab coat,” remarked Nigel, casually.
Ian grinned and thrust his hands into the jacket pockets, removing two fist-sized bags of greenery that could only have come from the Botanical Gardens.
“My, my!” exclaimed Nigel, eyes wide. “Now, don’t let the Prime Minister catch you walking around with those.”
“Good point.” Ian took the bags and hid them at the back of the furthermost shelves of the pantry. He turned to Nigel and tapped the side of his nose. “Fancy a drink?”
“Better make it four drinks.”
“Right you are.”