As well as talking about new book Who Shot Tony Blair? I share my thoughts on found food, nuns, keeping out of mischief and political predictions for the future…
“Another drink, Sir?”
The Right Honourable Boris Johnson didn’t look like he needed another drink. He reclined in awkward repose upon a blue velvet 18th century chaise longue, resplendent in a silk Japanese robe and little else. He turned his head towards the very nice man who was offering him another drink.
“A humble measure would suit me decorously, old bean!” Boris replied, with some enthusiasm.
His obliging companion was his permanently irritated butler, Snetterton.
“And what form will the humble measure take this time, Sir?”
“Oh. Well – what was the last one?”
“The last one was a creme de menthe, Sir,” replied Snetterton, eyebrow twitching furiously. “The one before that, was a Pernod.”
Before the bemused Boris could answer, an almighty crash and shower of shattered glass erupted from the bay windows, encouraged no doubt by the garishly-attired figure travelling through it apace. Boris sat up with a start, causing the silken robe to suppress yet less of his sturdy assemblage. Snetterton tutted.
“It would appear that Mr Nigel Farage is here to see you, Sir.”
“Farage! Bing-bang-bully-o for that! Well, if it’s Farage invading my supplicatory shack I suppose it had better be pints all round, what!”
Snetterton effectuated the most subtle eye roll known to man.
“Certainly, Sir. Two pints of what, would you suggest?”
“Chablis, if you will, Snetterton. Nigel! What are you playing at you dastardly fopdoodle?” Boris flung his arms wide, inviting a manly embrace.
Farage tolerated this unflattering reception, on the grounds that he had been called far worse.
While Snetterton retreated to the drinks cabinet, Nigel got uneasily to his feet and limped towards what he deemed to be a distinctly uninviting-looking Boris. Keen to avoid any physical contact, Nigel perched himself at the far end of the chaise longue and cast furtive glances in the direction of an industrious Snetterton.
“Quite an entrance you made there, chum,” remarked Boris. “That calls for a drink! Huzzah!”
“It was your bloody dogs!” Nigel cried. “They chased me all the way from the bloody carpark.”
“It’s not a carpark, you ridiculous peasant, it is a sweeping approach.”
Snetterton returned with two magnificent pints of Chablis and the mood improved immediately.
“So, what brings you here?” asked Boris, hardly noticing that a small pool of Chablis had gathered in his navel.
“Well, as a fellow Brexiteer and notorious trouser-dropper, I’ve been worried about you,” replied Nigel. “All this to-do about the general election and you’re nowhere to be seen! What’s going on?”
“Aha, well, Bozza here has had some pergravis pursuits on his hands, I tell you. All in preparation for that most auspicious of dates – 10th June!”
“10th June?” queried Nigel, his brows knotting so tightly it would take a brawny sailor to untie them. “The election is on the 8th June!”
“Damn and blast the buggering election!” blustered Boris. “No, no, no man. No. Lucy Brazier’s spanking new novel – PorterGirl – The Vanishing Lord – is released on 10th and there’s going to be almighty carousing in Cambridge on the very day! Broadcast across the globe by all manner of technical jiggery-pokery. I’ve invented a pair of self-removing trousers for this very occasion and it has taken up all my time. Old Bozza hasn’t even had a moment to consider this election whiffle-waffle.”
“Blimey, I bet the Prime Minister’s furious!”
“Actually, it was her that suggested it,” Boris paused to take a large swig of Chablis. “Can’t think why…”
“She was probably concerned about you coming out with more of that 15th century gutter talk…”
“And that’s another thing!” Boris brightened immediately. “There’s plenty of fine medieval trash-talking and lashings of rumpy-pumpy in the new book! Huzzah!”
“Well, it sounds utterly marvellous,” said Nigel, clasping his hands together with glee. “Where can I get my hands on a copy?”
“It’s available on pre-order now!” replied Boris, only a small amount of Chablis dribbling from his chin. “Whatever the result next Thursday it’s bound to be horrific for all concerned – The Vanishing Lord will be just the thing to cheer up the hoi polloi and idiot elite alike!”
Number Ten Downing Street, Theresa May’s private office.
The Prime Minister sits at her desk, a fretful expression upon her pallid features and a crumpled pile of food wrappers from Greggs strewn before her. Her chin is abundant with flaky pastry and bits of sausage. There is a knock at the door. Hastily sweeping the greasy refuse into her top drawer and wiping her mouth on a tailored sleeve, she bids her visitor to enter.
The Right Honourable Jeremy Heywood pokes a troubled face around the door.
“Ah, Cabinet Secretary, do come in!” May offers him her warmest of smiles, which puts him in mind of a vampire on the verge of attack. “Are you quite alright? You look rather unwell. I suppose it is rather chilly for the time of year. Throw some more socialists on the fire, why don’t you.”
“I shall be sure to do that, Prime Minister,” Heywood replies. “But I fear that even burning socialists will not be enough to assuage the calamity of the news I have just this moment received.”
“Oh, bugger, it’s not bloody Boris again is it?” huffs May. “That’s the absolute limit – we shall have to amputate everything below the waist. It’s the only way.”
“No, Prime Minister, it isn’t Boris. This time.”
“Not Farage? He hasn’t changed his mind about standing in the general election, has he?”
“Thankfully not, Prime Minister.” Heywood takes a deep breath and sits himself down opposite May. “I’m afraid that there is a rather momentous event taking place in June.”
“Well, yes, obviously I know all about that,” May replies with her trademark unearthly cackle. “The general election was my most brilliant idea! I shall increase my stranglehold on the country ten-fold and crush my opponents beneath my eye-wateringly expensive kitten heel. I shall drink the sweet, sweet blood of victory and…”
“I would keep comments about blood drinking to a minimum if I were you, Prime Minister,” Heywood advises. “But the event to which I am referring is more momentous than even the general election. It is, perhaps, the most significant event of 2017 and it threatens to eclipse the endeavours of Parliament completely.”
A wheeze of sharply drawn breath echoes round the room and May lifts a trembling hand to her lips.
“You don’t mean..?”
“I’m afraid so, Prime Minister. Lucy Brazier is releasing her next PorterGirl novel, The Vanishing Lord, in June and there is a very real chance that the people of Great Britain will be so overcome with excitement that they might forget to go out and vote completely, leaving us in a very precarious position. Worse, they might even vote for Brazier instead.”
“This is unprecedented,” croaks May, her voice barely above a whisper. “What can be done?”
“Our only hope is to persuade her to delay the novel’s release until after the general election,” replies Heywood. “It’s our only chance of preventing complete and total anarchy.”
“Then that is what we must do,” nods May, brow knotted and knuckles white. “Do it. Do whatever it takes.”
Heywood rises to his feet, filled with renewed vigour and resolve at this most critical of tasks.
“Yes, Prime Minister.”