“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.
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