Groundhog Boris

This is the seventh entry in the satirical series at https://www.abctales.com/collection/pandemic-tales-bojo-and-co

Groundhog Boris

The numbers on the clock radio flipped over to 06:00. Silence was broken abruptly by the melodious tones of Sonny and Cher singing “I Got You Babe”. The resident slumbering in bed stirred as the notes of musical lyricism were replaced by the babble of two, inveterate DJs who were instructing listeners to “rise and shine” as it was a beautiful day out there. The now former sleeper threw the bedsheet over and reached across to turn the radio off. He yawned, stretching both arms out wide. As he did, he shook his head and dust fell out, drifting to the floor from his blonde thatch. “Right, let’s get to it.” The man bumbled, jumping out of his four-poster bed. His Old Etonian tones were as crusty as they ever were.

Curtains were drawn back in a theatrical manner and sunlight infiltrated the room. It was a bright, cold day with another ground frost overnight. Again. The rotund fifty-something looked quizzically out at the world, his left eyebrow arching just a little as he considered the sudden feeling of déjà vu. He tried to dredge the reason for the sensation from the back of his mind as he shaved, showered and dressed for breakfast. His wife and child were staying at his mother-in-law’s for a few days although they had plans to meet later on that day.

Lumbering down the stairs, he was met in a small parlour by a middle-aged lady holding her hands together in front of her with one balled into a fist, cupped by the other. With hair tied in a knot on the top of her head, she looked distinctly matronly. Her dark, grey pinny dress blended with a stern look that went with being the person charged with organising the Prime Minister’s breakfast.

“Erm….that’ll be a….um….table for one.” The PM declared, laughing to himself at the jocular nature of the comment.

The maid stared back at the man, her expression unchanged. Just for a second, a look of uncertainty flashed across the blonde man’s face.  Before the moment could attract further incident, the austere woman turned and escorted her guest to a small circular, table in the corner of the room.

“I shall return with tea, toast and take your order shortly.” The servant stated in a robotic way that made her sound like a character from “The Stepford Wives”.

Watching her spirit away, the PM shuddered then looked down at the table. As well as a white tablecloth embroidered with roses and silver knives, forks and spoons, he noticed several, unopened envelopes perched on top of a small china plate in the middle of the cutlery. He took the one on top and slit it open with a knife. Inside was a card with a message printed on it. The PM screwed his eyes as he peered at the words. It was an invite to attend a work meeting later that day although it did go on to state in bold letters that in no way should this be construed as a party of any kind. Cheese and wine would be available and served throughout. In brackets at the bottom was a note that said a suitcase would be on standby in case a trip to the nearest off license was required and that a volunteer might be required.

The rest of the envelopes contained similar invitations – work meetings that were NOT to be thought of as parties although every one of them seemed to involve booze and merriment. Again, the blonde man thought about this but, as quickly as he had considered any potential issue, he had dismissed any concerns. The Pandemic was raging and his government had enforced strict lockdown preventing people from gathering. He would abide by these rules and lead from the front. Of course, he would.

****

Having eaten breakfast, the PM made his way through a corridor to a large room at the back of Number 10, Downing Street. He stopped briefly to check himself in a full-length mirror that was attached to a wall near to a security door. He grinned back at his reflection, a white shirt with a navy blue tie went nicely with his black trousers and polished brogue shoes. His tailored suit completed the appearance of a city gent in town on business of the utmost importance. He winked at the man in the glass grinning back at him.

Pressing keys on a pad and placing his thumb on a small, flat screen, light flashed in recognition and validation of the PM’s identity. Boris often wondered what would happen if kidnappers came along and stole one of his thumbs. He did like using them to signal all was well like he had wanted to when he had got stuck on a zip wire whilst holding Union Jack flags in both hands and wearing a blue safety helmet. He had looked more like a sack of spuds than the Mayor of London but it wasn’t like him to look or sound silly at all usually. Although, come to mention it, he had been credited with the quote “The dreadful truth is that when people come to see their MP they have run out of better ideas.” Well….ummmm….yes. 

The PM entered a large, function room with whitewashed walls and a large, rectangular table dividing the floor space. At the front was a pull-down projector screen with equipment perched on a separate table. A man with a plump face was pacing up and down on the beige carpet. He wore glasses and was also professionally attired wearing a sharp, pin-striped suit. As the PM sat down at the head of the table, on either side were a man and a woman in attendance.

“Ah good morning all. Shall we….erm….ummm…..get on then?” The PM puffed his chest out noting the formality that had taken over since his arrival.

“Of course, PM. I will start the presentation if everyone is just about ready.” The presenter scanned his audience. Boris was sat directly opposite and on one side there was Matt the philanderer and on the other Priti the vampiress. He cleared his throat, pointed a clicker at the screen and pressed.

“As you can see from the headline, this is all about our Levelling Up Agenda.” Michael felt confidence oozing through his body. All the PM could think of was a Michelin man with glasses.

The presentation flipped on to the next screen and a map of the United Kingdom appeared. On it was a thick, blue line drawn from London to Birmingham with a further two lines branching out from the West Midlands to Manchester and Crewe.

Matt peered at the image with an inscrutable stare, his mind elsewhere floating in thoughts of schmoozing with the ladies at the water cooler while Priti subliminally thought about her next victim to be drained quietly in a small lane, somewhere in Whitechapel.

“As you will appreciate following the party’s successful election campaign and the winning of so many seats in the North that are traditionally held by Labour, we are committed to building the HS2 train line from London to supercharge communication and travel up and down the country.” Michael scanned the audience for a reaction. For a few seconds, the room was silent. The reverie was broken by the minister clicking the presentation off and asking if there were any questions in the absence of applause.

“Erm…umm….is that it, Michael?” The PM asked with some consternation.

The man at the front shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Then he suddenly remembered: “Ah, no, yes. There is more, PM.”

The presentation reappeared and the presenter clicked on to a third screen. On it the two lines that had branched out to the North were crossed out with a large X.

“Oh yes. It turns out that the extended bit of the project has been deemed unaffordable by the bods that run the numbers.”

Boris rubbed his eyes and wondered whether Dom would have done a better job. Underneath the table, a tiny device pulsed as it clicked and whirred, inaudible to the human ear. Hundreds of miles away, a gaunt, thin, balding man listened to the meeting as he frantically scribbled notes ready to update his blog. Dom sneered to himself knowing that revenge was a dish best served at Specsavers following an eye test. Ah yes, he missed taking on all of those pathetic losers who had tried to discredit his heroic journey to Barnard Castle. The Rose Garden had been his finest hour but his subsequent removal from office stung to this day. He was pretty sure that a celebration had ensued at Number 10 led by Carrie Antoinette after he had left carrying his personal belongings and a lorry load of sleaze both in the paperwork and on his mobile phone. He would wreak his vengeance; you could be sure of that.

In the corner of the operations rooms, an invisible force swirled. If one had an electron microscope it would have been possible to see the tiny particles that made up the virus. They made a low, buzzing noise, the entity swooping and diving like a swarm of bees. It considered proceedings and looked longingly at the fresh victims. It baulked at the thought of going close to the woman in the dark purple dress with high collars. It could sense evil.

As the delegation continued to mull over the rather brief presentation, the security door swung open and standing there was the wife of Boris the PM – Carrie. In her arms she held a huge cake. The PM looked across the room, taking in his beloved’s refined, blue dress and her dazzling, diamond necklace. She had a broad grin as she glided towards the table. It was then that the PM froze in horror and realised that this was against the rules. This was a work meeting and NOT a party. He squirmed in his seat, the cake getting nearer. It loomed over him like the bow of The Titanic homing in on an iceberg.

Before it could make it to where he was seated, strains of “Happy birthday.” rang out from those gathered. Blowing the lit candles out, that formed the cue for the room to suddenly be filled with workers from Whitehall who filed in through the security door forming a conga line. The lights were dimmed and loud music piped out from an MP3 player. “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor rang out permeating walls. The PM imagined himself at the top of stone steps in Philadelphia, jumping in the air celebrating a training run and preparing for his next boxing match like a latter-day Rocky Balboa.

The virus seized its moment and drifted across to join the crowd. It gorged on the opening and closing of mouths still carefully avoiding the woman in purple with blood dripping from the corners of her mouth. It watched wearily as she eyed pulsing veins in necks, her eyes alight with malevolence.

Still listening and recording in his Northern Lair, the balding ex-mandarin continued to write notes. His usually dour demeanour had been replaced by something resembling mild excitement, his body shaking ever-so-slightly at the evidence rolling in. His latest entry read “PM ambushed by birthday cake!” as he cackled maniacally and wished he had a cat to stroke whilst sitting back in a leather, reclining chair.

****

The numbers on the clock radio flipped over to 06:00. Silence was broken abruptly by the melodious tones of Sonny and Cher singing “I Got You Babe”. The resident slumbering in bed stirred as the notes of musical lyricism were replaced by the babble of two, inveterate DJs who were instructing listeners to “rise and shine” as it was a beautiful day out there. The now former sleeper threw the bedsheet over and reached across to turn the radio off. He yawned, stretching both arms out wide. As he did, he shook his head and dust fell out, drifting to the floor from his blonde thatch. “Right, let’s get to it.” The man bumbled, jumping out of his four-poster bed. His Old Etonian tones were as crusty as they ever were.

Curtains were drawn back in a theatrical manner and sunlight infiltrated the room. It was a bright, cold day with another ground frost overnight. Again. The rotund fifty-something looked quizzically out at the world, his left eyebrow arching just a little as he considered the sudden feeling of déjà vu.  

The truth was that there had now been an undetermined number of days that had repeated in a never-ending cycle. Each one started the same way and each one ended with a knees-up of some kind. Turning from the window, the PM noticed a folder sitting on the dresser that Carrie would use to get ready in the mornings. He paced across the floor and reached down to pick it up. On the front page was the title “Partygate – a report by Sue Gray.”

The PM looked worried as he considered opening the document. He had faced this dilemma many times when he had been sent other government documents to read and sign. Of course, he didn’t have the time to actually go through them properly and would invariably skip to the end. He decided that this was the best way to go although with a certain amount of trepidation. He gently leafed through the pages and held open the final entries. He eyes took in the words at the bottom of the page that read:  “Verdict - guilty.” He stared at the signatures on the last page of the document. It had been signed by Senior Civil Servant, Sue Gray and witnessed by Dominic Cummings. The PM looked up and mouthed “Oh bugger.”

This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents
are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

Image free to use via WikiCommons at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Groundhog#/media/File:Marmota_monax_UL_04.jpg