A MEETING OVER DRINKS AT NO. 10.

30 Nov

This story is about a Prime Minister.
Notice I said “a” Prime Minister and not “the” Prime Minister. It’s too late in the day to think of libelling a real live human being, especially a Prime Minister, and anyway I wouldn’t presume to know much about the real McCoy or Cameron or whatever his name is. So this is about some totally fictitious Prime Minister, one who went to the same public school as many of his predecessors and nearly all of his chums.
He probably knows the pertness of their bottoms in remarkable detail. But this is no time for crudities, so I’ll forget that I typed that last bit, especially as no non-fictitious human being or even Prime Minister can lay claim to such intimacy. Not publicly, anyway. Not so that the people know.
And our imaginary Prime Minister is having drinks with some chums. He enjoys having drinks with those eye-catching representatives of what the best schools churn out because, in between reminiscing about their education they can do some dirty little deals.
“Remember buggering Simpson?” he asks to one and all in general, and there’s a sudden squawk created by memory. With people like this memories are often accompanied by squawks, the sort generated by a septum that has been melted away by delicious cocaine.
“Don’t forget, you promised to let my little business have a big bite of the NHS,” replies a chum once the general revelry about a well-buggered Simpson has faded into the meaningless hum of meaningless conversation.
“Of course,” he nods, winking. “It’s being done on the quiet. You know what the proles are like, how they think their health is important! The first hint of selling off their precious health service and there are pages and pages of quite offensive cartoons on Twitter and Facebook!”
“But they only last a day or two,” smirks a chum with an erection brought on by memories of Simpson.
“A two-day wonder,” agrees the Prime Minister. “And don’t you worry, chums. The war that’s on its way will line your pockets okay! As long as you remember which shares to buy and who told you!”
“That newspaper man – what’s his name – the foreignor with the really popular paper, who owns half of the yank media too … he gave me some vital tips,” sniggered the purely fictitious Chancellor of the Exchequer.
“He’s an all round good egg,” giggled the Prime Minister. “We’ll get shot of the Beeb and he can have the lot when the fuss dies down… so there’s some more shares to get your mitts on… Now, who remembers Wilkins’ bollocks?”
“Me, sir, me!” gloated the group as one.
“Who’s for a line of coke?” asked the Chancellor, and even he knew his grin felt a mite twisted. It’s a good job these characters aren’t real.
© Peter Rogerson 20.11.15

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