My Mum Shot Tony Blair

“Everyone just stop for a moment!”

Minister for Good Ideas & Gin Dr Samantha Martens strode into the centre of the pantry, stern palm aloft and a determined expression on her face.

“Thank god,” the Prime Minister whispered to Boris, King of Oxford. “She must’ve had a Good Idea.”

“I’ll bet you a shiny farthing it involves gin,” Boris replied.

“Before we go any further, I think we should all have a large gin.”

Boris slapped his thigh and elbowed the Prime Minister with ferocious joviality.

“We need some answers,” announced Wing Commander Tom, his tone grave and fedora quivering with anticipation.

I need some answers!” huffed the Prime Minister, turning towards a forlorn Snetterton, who had already had far too much gin as it was. “Snetterton – are you really my father?”

“Well, madam, it’s either me or that footman with the limp and the gammy eye.”

“It’s definitely Snetterton!” said Mumsie, shooting him a look that if it didn’t kill, could at least seriously maim. Clearly there was another story attached to this that no one present would ever want to hear.

“Years ago when I was a simple under butler at Blenheim Palace, your mother would come and visit to sell eggs to the housekeeper,” began Snetterton, with reluctance. “The seventies were coming to a close and the dawn of the nineteen eighties was upon us – butlers were very in vogue in those days…”

“Oh, they were!” exclaimed Mumsie, clasping her hands together in delight at the memory. “You know how they say that all the nice girls love a sailor? Well – all the naughty girls loved a butler back then!”

Lucy shuddered and had another gin.

“Your mother and I enjoyed a long summer of passion, frolicking among the haylofts and the stables…”

“And once or twice in the woodshed!”

“Yes, Mumsie, the woodshed too,” Snetterton sighed, lost for a moment in misty eyed reverie. “But, to my great sadness, she was promised to another. A civil servant from Cambridge, he was – and he demanded that your mother ended her egg peddling days to settle down with him. And so it came to be that our final – and most lusty – encounter occurred at the Duke of Marlborough’s Christmas party, round the back of the Christmas tree in the great hall as I recall, and the result of this flurry of festive ardour was your good self – the future Prime Minister of East Anglia.”

“That… that’s beautiful,” sniffed Nigel, wiping a tear from his eye. “Prime Minister, you were like a little Christmas gift!”

“Ha! Snetterton here was certainly a stocking filler!” roared Boris, his blond thatch rustling with glee. “Now – I’m sure I know a super gag about emptying sacks…”

“Wait a moment,” Tom interrupted, much to the relief of all concerned. “None of this explains why you shot Tony Blair.”

“He was such a nuisance, you know,” muttered Mumsie, shaking her head. “Always in my way in the kitchen. Forever going on about being hungry and wanting a haircut. And the Deputy Prime Minister couldn’t stand him, of course. He would deliberately do his business on Tony’s shoe – which only led to more moaning and more cleaning up for me! And I could see the trouble he was causing for all you chaps in the Cabinet, the war with Oxford and what have you…”

Boris and Nigel looked contrite as Mumsie levelled a steely eye at them both.

“Yes… um… we’re very sorry about that,” mumbled Boris, inspecting his toes with some fervour.

“Won’t happen again,” added Nigel.

“Anyway. When President Alatorre sent over all those weapons, I pinched one of the handguns from the shed and hid it in the kitchen drawer,” Mumsie continued. “They had silencers on them so I knew it wouldn’t make a noise. I was just waiting for the right time to do away with the miserable bastard. So when you had your big party with all the Oxford lot, I thought then would be the perfect time. I thought one of them would get the blame – probably Nigel Farage – so I shot him right in the face.”

“But Mumsie, didn’t you realise you would be in an awful lot of trouble?” asked Lucy. She did her best to sound concerned, but was really just relieved that they had moved on from the disturbing tale of her conception.

“I felt dreadful about it the moment I had done it,” Mumsie replied, her eyes becoming moist and her hands beginning to shake. Snetterton took her in his arms.

“I entered the kitchen just as she pulled the trigger,” the butler explained. “I slipped away from my duties during the peace treaty. I could barely watch the events in the bedroom, knowing that my own daughter… ahem. I knew I had to come to the aid of Mumsie, Steve would be bringing further victuals from the barbecue at any moment so I caused a distraction. I snuck out into the garden and hid behind the shed, pretending to be a female in distress and luring Steve away from the kitchen door. This enabled Mumsie to dispose of the weapon and clean the brain splatter from her person before anyone realised what she had done.”

“Steve said in his statement that you were cleaning when he came in and discovered Blair,” confirmed Tom, consulting his notebook. “He also mentioned the distressed female voice. I should have realised this was a possibility when Lord Westington informed me that you were the only one with the key to the shed, Mumsie.”

“I am so sorry,” wailed Mumsie, hanging her head in the hope that her sobs would not find their way past her lips. “What will happen to me now?”

Wing Commander Tom snapped shut his notebook and replaced it in his jacket pocket. He turned to Lucy and folded his arms.

“Prime Minister, the Cambridge Intelligence Agency are at your service,” he said. “How would you like me to proceed?”

“Well, I think we should just go along with Nigel’s original plan of the cover up,” replied Lucy with a shrug. “We’ll arrange a low-key press release on the day of the official joining of nations, just like we said. As far as anyone need know, Tony Blair died of natural causes following his trial for war crimes.”

Cabinet Secretary Sir Edd Evans-Morley choked on his gin.

“You don’t mean to say that we’re still going ahead with that ridiculous charade?” he spluttered.

“Ha! If it’s ridiculous charades you’re after, you should have joined in earlier in the bedroom!” Boris chuckled. Sir Edd winced at the memory. “Now listen here. If my butler is the father of the Prime Minister, that means she’s got a bit of Oxford in her at any rate. Although – not quite as much as her mother had at that Christmas party – ha! Anyway. She was conceived at Blenheim and abandoned by her rightful parentage. This simply won’t do. I say we go right ahead and unite Oxford and Cambridge, take over the rest of the country and put right that which was so arse-renderingly put asunder by Nigel and my good self all those years ago.”

“That’s right!” Lucy exclaimed. “You see? That’s my plan. It’s always been my plan. I planned it and now it’s working. We will reunite Great Britain and with Cambridge as the new capital city, we will soon be world leaders once again.”

“With Oxford as the capital city,” corrected Boris.

“Cambridge” reiterated Lucy.

“We’ll see about that.”

“Details, details,” interrupted Dr Martens. “The important thing is, we found out who shot Tony Blair and the Prime Minister’s plan has been proved to be a Good Idea. I tell you what else is a Good Idea – getting drunk. As Minister for Good Ideas & Gin, I humbly propose that we all do that for a bit.”

And so they did. They got drunker than anyone had ever got in recorded history and burned every pair of trousers that they could find. A splendid start to the beginning of the New Great Britain.

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Nigel is gutted this is the final post

I have compiled all Who Shot Tony Blair? blog posts into a handy PDF for anyone who wants to read it all in one go – but I warn you, it makes even less sense that way. Pop along to the CONTACT page and drop me a line – the Prime Minister 


48 thoughts on “My Mum Shot Tony Blair

    1. This is the exact face. Alluring, isn’t it? Would be particularly good when combined with cartwheels 😉 It is annoying when people moan about wanting a haircut, perfectly reasonable to want to shoot them for it, I reckon. Mumsie certainly thought so and I support her whole-heartedly.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. Shooting him in the face is a whole lot cheaper than Chilcot and much quicker than any court case (that will never happen) that the press are going on about. This is exactly why I should be Prime Minister. I’m brilliant at it.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. The best bit is the ‘quotes’ sidebar – one of them is simply ‘lefty tosser!’ which Boris supposedly shouted at someone, most of the rest are her own quotes about Boris! I could do a much better job of it for him. I reckon he has become more popular since my portrayal of King Boris.

        Liked by 1 person

      3. I’ve still got my old text books somewhere, I reckon the dead language will be dancing off my tongue in no time. I will promise to leave Nigel out of it, but can’t guarantee that I won’t slip the odd penis in here and there. (Into the speeches, I mean. Obviously.)

        Liked by 1 person

    1. Hurrah for our Grand Plan!!
      I am very pleased with the happy ending – Mumsie finds love with Snetterton, everyone drinks loads of gin and all the trousers get burned to death 🙂
      Hehe – I think you are right, his tan has faded before he got to flaunt it properly. But there will be more to come – once the country is reunited, I feel that our friends across the pond deserve some interference from our great government 😉

      Liked by 2 people

      1. That’s a good idea – it could be a new ceremonial tradition. At all important state occasions, gin shall be drunk and trousers shall be burned. I shall make Nigel Chief Trouser Burner, he’ll love that.
        I shall really miss writing this, but with the Poirot thing as well my book has been sadly neglected in favour of bonking butlers and ministerial piss-ups. Once I’ve sorted out my actual proper writing commitment I will return to government once more!

        Liked by 1 person

      2. He will! And it’ll keep him out of mischief!

        Yes…you should probably concentrate on the thing you are expected to be writing… I hear people like publishers have demands!

        Anyway…the government needs a holiday after reuniting the country and solving a murder and suchlike! Some gin and sleeping all around…
        Probably separately…but who knows!

        Liked by 1 person

      3. Yes, I don’t think I can get away with saying ‘it’s nearly done’ anymore, when I have barely glanced at it since Christmas! (sshh!!)
        We shall need a break to get over our epic hangovers – maybe Boris and Nigel will finally move back home to Oxford! But then we wouldn’t want to split up Mumsie and Snetterton. Perhaps we should all just camp out at Number Ten until someone thinks of something sensible to do 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

      4. I won’t tell them don’t worry!!
        My general reaction is, I am just proof reading and making it read sensibly… a taske which takes a long time around here if any engineers have been involved!!

        I think holing up in Number Ten sounds like the thing to do…the longer everyone is there, the better the argument for making Cambridge capital of the world…I mean Great Britain…
        I will think of something sensible to do…it is my job… it may involve gin… and Bernards!

        Liked by 1 person

      5. Yes PLEASE – and don’t forget the rope, and huge roll of duct tape – you REALLY don’t want to hear the moans and groans of this one (probably due to a lack of hair to go on about). I’m sure more than a few of our citizens would be happy to offer up a kitchen and a chair, although mine is too small and doesn’t have a door.

        RE: cover up. Always the way – why should this be any different? Good show! The PM has really hit her stride as a world leader. NOW – about this problem across the pond . . .

        I wouldn’t use the word “shot” in the title. How about “Whatever Happened to . . .” instead? He’s rather into torture you know – and not just the verbal kind he spews daily. He launches a vendetta against anybody who is unhappy with ANY of his bad ideas sans gin. Don’t be searchable.

        Maybe you could make it an allegory. “Once upon a time, an un-named leader of a once-great nation decimated by his FIRST world ideas, particularly keen on the color orange” might be good – NOBODY would figure out who that was supposed to be. 🙂
        xx,
        mgh
        (Madelyn Griffith-Haynie – ADDandSoMuchMORE dot com)
        ADD Coach Training Field founder; ADD Coaching co-founder
        “It takes a village to transform a world!”

        Liked by 1 person

      6. Haha! Don’t worry – he will be alluded to but never formally identified, although there will be no doubt who is being delightfully satirised for the pleasure of the reading public! Sir Edd will run rings around his US counterparts and hopefully some order will be restored. Perhaps King Boris could be snuck in as a replacement POTUS? The possibilities are endless!
        Xx

        Liked by 1 person

      7. Um, could you do something about the POTUS-in-line and the Secretary of Education while you’re at it?

        Maybe all three tied back-to-back in a circle in a quiet corner of a huge kitchen in some McMansion mostly used by the catering staff. Surely you can locate ONE of the mega-wealthy who isn’t in love with his ideas – it’s a big country, after all.

        They might even have a butler, too. Bring Mumsy (but don’t tell Snetterton).
        xx,
        mgh

        Liked by 1 person

      8. I am very much looking forward to tackling international relations, I must say. So many opportunities! Rest assured, we shall be doing all we can to bring harmony to the world. With all sorts of capers along the way, naturally;)
        Xx

        Liked by 1 person

  1. Things have turned out well Prime Minister. Conception behind a Christmas tree is highly commendable. I do hope the needles weren’t dropping though. A great plan for a cover up. Good to see Oxford and Cambridge uniting maybe.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes, a good result all round! I am sure that Mumsie’s rump is made of stern stuff and a few needles wouldn’t have worried her. I think Oxford and Cambridge could lead the world as a shining example of diplomatic relations. That’s if I don’t fall out with Boris again.

      Like

  2. Super stuff! Well done, Prime Minister! I have compiled a list of annoying politicians – could you please pass it to Mumsie for me? (It’s quite a long list.) How does it feel being called Lucy Snetterton? You may have to marry Boris just so you can change your name…

    PS Kirkintilloch for the capital!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, FF! Be sure to pass the list on, now Mumsie has a taste for blood I doubt very much that her killing days are over 😉 Funnily enough, there is a good chance I will be marrying Boris in the near future (obviously on the blog – not in real life!!) and a strong possibility that Nigel will embark on a passionate affair with Putin. I need to practice my romance writing, you see, and I think they would make a lovely couple.
      Haha! I will certainly take that into consideration!

      Like

  3. Needle drop piled high and dry
    Beware the pricks behind the tree
    Furtive manoeuvring on hands and knees
    No trousers tinsel tickled creases pleased
    By fairy lights her candy caned …
    Best stop now before carried away!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. And what was requested at the beginning was achieved in the end. Mumsie will be exonerated and hopefully get to marry the butler as Boris and Lucy rule great Britain and send Tom over to, ahem, you know, and get him to assassinate the not so great orange skinned one. lol Loved it, so much fun.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. All’s well that ends well! Definitely a happy ending for Mumsie and Snetterton and we will return to see how Lucy & Boris manage with running the country. No doubt there will be some dealings with our friends across the pond also…;)
      Thank you so much for reading, it has been a blast to write, I’m so glad you had fun too 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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