Boris and the Hustings

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

Boris and the Hustings

It had been like watching a stick insect being drowned; that’s what the man with shaggy blond hair thought whilst absorbing images of a forlorn prime minister in heavy rain at a lectern announcing the date of a general election. He would never have done anything quite so stupid. Yes, there had been those threats about dying in a ditch to get Brexit done but it had never come to that; which was just as well because he may have struggled to find a ditch big enough to take him.  Being out of the public eye really didn’t suit. Still….he had found a niche that provided enough funds to keep Carrie Antoinette in the manner to which she had become accustomed. In truth, if anything, his wife’s association with him had brought her a move down the social ladder rather than up it but he was thankful for small mercies and memories of pulling together the cash for new wallpaper to spruce up Number 10 still haunted.

Things had moved on. These days, a Spartan office deep in the bowels of Civil Service buildings suited just fine. Nobody but nobody knew that it was he and a balding former mandarin that ran the Bright Ideas unit for the current PM. Despite their differences and the damaging revelations made during the Covid Inquiry, they had agreed to put them to one side and pull together for the sake of the Party.

It had made total sense calling an election when so far behind in the polls; another great idea from Dom who had been beavering away on his laptop. There were those that might accuse him of bitterness over the way he was treated by his old boss Boris and the humiliation of the Barnard Castle episode during the Pandemic but he wasn’t one for harbouring a grudge – he only wanted what was best for the party (shifty, darting eyes and masked sneer suggested otherwise. Vulpine).

It had been on a particularly drunken evening that they had come up with the idea of National Service and fed it through to the team responsible for the latest Conservative manifesto. Old reruns of Dad’s Army and It Ain’t Half Hot Mum on UK Gold had prompted much merriment and mirth as Boris and Dom chugged a bottle of Champers between them. Audiences loved men in uniform so why wouldn’t voters? “Let’s bring things up to date, include the laydeez, and off we go.” the two of them had declared in a mock attempt at their version of Goggle Box.

What could go wrong?

Surely all school leavers would be desperate to spend time in the armed forces as soon as they turned eighteen. Forget going to university or even getting a job and blowing that first pay on wine, women (or men) and song. And maybe a new PlayStation. Nope…a year of firing blanks from an old army rifle would be much more preferable for today’s generation. Well Rishi had lapped it up and clamoured for more new stuff.

The office was something of a haven for both men. Boris loved twirling around on his leather chair, sawdust streaming from his thatch. His sidekick and erstwhile assistant Dom had time to keep churning out his dull but worthy blog to subscribers. On the magnolia painted walls were framed photographs of the ex-PM in his prime. Pictures of him stuck on a zip wire suspended high in the air wearing a blue safety helmet, legs dangling and clutching Union Jack flags in both hands. Pictures of him wearing baggy tracksuit bottoms out jogging and numerous snaps of poses involving either one or both thumbs up boosted by a cheesy grin. He had been the best the country had to offer. Oh yes. Hasta La Vista baby – he would be back!

Not everything was rosy in the Rose Garden (scene of Dom’s finest rebuttal re travelling antics during Covid times. Eye tests had never been so thorough). No longer would images of the Michelin Man wander through the ex-PM’s head. The be-spectacled Michael Gove was standing down and opting not to stand at the General Election. His doughy face and eclectic dance moves would be missed by many. A tear ran down Boris’s face as he recalled sweaty nights at the up market nightclub Punters.

Those Covid days had been extraordinarily tough but also remarkable for the resilience showed by so many. The rotund parliamentarian remembered fondly the ‘beyond the pale’ efforts of his Health Minister – Matt Hancock – and his superhuman efforts to save lives. The virus had even come for Boris himself but he was made of steel so duly survived, becoming an example of fortitude to his People. Like Churchill, his hero. He glanced at his reflection from a dormant laptop screen – Hollywood facial features, cherubic lips and a charmer’s smile. He winked acknowledging the handsome beast that he was dressed in white shirt with a tieless, open collar and black slacks. Lady Killer.

Dom was beckoning him over to his desk. Even wearing a pale blue polo shirt and cargo shorts he looked austere. Behind, on the wall, was a poster with a UFO hovering over treetops and the slogan I Want to Believe. Next to his laptop was a piece of paper with calculations scrawled on it. He was muttering something about £2,000 in tax payable by every person if Labour get elected. Boris looked wild-eyed at the numbers remembering the Battle Bus during Brexit that had inferred £350 million per week would be paid into the NHS rather than EU coffers. Yes, people liked neat sets of numbers that were easy to relate to. More importantly they believed that stuff. Belief was everything. Get Brexit done. He had.

He felt like a magician wearing white gloves and a top hat. “Now you see it, now you don’t.” Sleight of hand. Conjuring tricks. Ready-made deals, oven-cooked Brexit with no connection to his predecessor Maggie May’s draft. Wasn’t Maggie May a Rod Stewart song? He knew a woman had gone before but couldn’t remember who. His memory wasn’t what it was. Things got confused. When in doubt, bumble awkwardly for several minutes. Yes, that had always got him out of trouble. Well maybe although that hadn’t worked with the Electoral Commission….cash for curtains *shudder*. Then there was forgetting to bring the correct ID when wanting to vote in May. Just as well he had been behind the change in legislation to ensure wasters like himself couldn’t circumvent electoral laws. He squinted at that last thought knowing something wasn’t quite right but not sure what.

The figures would need checking. He knew someone sound with numbers; the inventor of Trussanomics. Yes, Liz could give these the once over. She knew her stuff. I mean…she was the record holder for the fastest to a Prime Ministerial pension plan ever. Didn’t she have a race with a lettuce? The Tesco iceberg lettuce in the blonde wig had outlasted her 49-day Premiership. Boris had made a few hundred at the gentlemen’s club on that particular wager although he was a wig-down on the whole escapade having loaned one of his own to the ubiquitous retailer.  

There was a knock at the door. Both men looked at each other. They never got visitors. It was like the basement office from the IT Crowd. There were several scrolls sitting next to the chute that was used as a two-way communication system with the Conservative Party Election Campaign HQ; new ideas to take forward as part of the manifesto. Boris rose gingerly and ambled over to the spy hole at eye-height in the door. Gaping to see who it was, he was greeted by the sight of someone else’s eye ogling from the other side.

“Who’s there? I demand you declare yourself or….um….well….there will be trouble blast your eyes.” The challenge was made in a crusty old-Etonian accent that was synonymous with the status of the aging Parliamentarian.

“It’s me….Rishi. Let me in. There’s nowhere left to go after the TV debates post D-Day. I’m about as popular as a turd in a swimming pool.”

The tone was desperate. To be fair, Boris and his sidekick Dom had watched those televised encounters and noted how the PM’s attempt at connecting with the working class had unravelled after pleading poverty at not having Sky television growing up. There had been memes. So many memes.

“This is a top secret establishment, I’ll have you know. A cerebral centre of…um….ongoing genius.” The blond-haired man stared at an abacus gathering dust on a table a few feet away with Property of Liz T painted on the wooden base.  

“How did you know we were…um….here?”

“I followed this robed figure standing next to me. One minute I was minding my own business snacking on an unhealthy chocolate bar, the next I spotted this mysterious figure holding a placard. It said “Vote Tory. Bet on us.” Of course, I just had to challenge that and tracked them all the way here.

The former-PM looked unsure. His gnome-like colleague with balding pate shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal fashion.

Life had been a gamble and perhaps this situation was no different. Bold, innovative and strong, the rotund politician decided fortune favoured the brave and the brave meant him. He punched in a code to a keypad at the side of the door. A latch released and it slowly opened inwards. Standing there was indeed the current Prime Minister wearing a chequered cloth cap alongside a monk-like figure with its face obscured by a cowl.

“That’s very kind of you, Boris. Thank you so much.” A slender hand reached out offering a gentlemanly shake.

At the same time, a brown robe bound by a hessian belt felt to the floor behind them. With it came the sound of buzzing as millions of particles of virus hovered like a swarm of bees in the shape of a man.

“Good Lord….You have led our dark friend Covid straight to us.” Barked Boris.

“I knew we shouldn’t have placed that bet about the date of the election with it. Bugger.”

Image free to use at: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/13/10_Downing_Street._M...

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