Ever since he had attended his first meeting at Number 10 Icabalde Mayheme, Deputy PM, Home Office Minister had been captivated by the heady aromas of the Cabinet Room. This morning a cacophony of delightful odours crowded the senses. A large tray of hot tea cakes diligently prepared earlier by the cook blasted out a rich spiciness of sticky currents wrapped in warm soft, sweet bread. The luxuriant aroma of the expensive wax used by the cleaners danced lightly over the expansive polished Cabinet table. Jenny Garson's pungent perfume invaded the room struggling to overcome the oozing mustiness of the panelled wood walls. Icabalde closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and bathed in this luxuriantly sensual mix of fragrances.
The PM was droning on interminably about the poodle incident, bad press and the French President's imminent visit. Icabalde shared the common view that neither poodles, tabloids nor the visit of an egotistical, snail wolfing Hexagone was worthy of Icablade's serious attention. He serenely drew in another soothing concoction of euphoric odours. Slowly opening his eyes he looked at the ornamental antique clock that stood on the mantel piece in the Cabinet Room at Number 10. The whole thing with the poodle was bloody irritating. If the PM didn't get a move on then he was going to be late for his next meeting which given the headlines in the rash of early morning papers spread across the table in front of him he had an urgent need to attend.
The attendees of this morning meeting consisted only of the hard core cabinet ministers who wished to usurp the leader. Icabalde cast his eye around the table at this well dressed band of conspirators. Apart from Peter Porter the PM's fop haired, bespectacled Press Secretary and the doe eyed Dolores only Icabalde, Jenny Garson and Hugo Beare were in attendance.
Icabalde sensed an air of general disinterest in the PM's ramblings. Only Dolores Dawn appeared to be interested in the PM's litany of woes. Dolores Dawn, 'Desirable Doris', Secretary of State for Media and Sport, diminutive, plump, buxom, peroxide blond sat next to the PM. Dolores the PM's only real ally patted him reassuringly on the arm and rolled her big beagle eyes sympathetically at each utterance of the word 'poodle'.
Jenny the efficient, workman like, potty mouthed Secretary of State for Work and Pensions was impatiently tapping her pen on her Filofax occasionally letting out a sound like a punctured tyre whilst she sat staring despairingly at the ceiling.
The young, suave, physical, well spoken, public schooled, Hugo, Chancellor of Exchequer was taking casual peeks down Dolores top hoping no one would notice. Catching Icabalde's eye he smirked, nonchalantly placed two tea cakes suggestively on his plate before winking lewdly at Icabalde.
Icabalde looked away. The PM rambled on, seemly unaware of the general feeling of impatience welling up in the room around him. Given the state of the press's view on his Leadership the PM should be more concerned about those vultures gathered in the room about him rather than canine shootings in deepest darkest Croydon. In Icabalde's view the PM was playing Caesar to Jenny's Gaius Longinus and Hugo's Marcus Brutas. Together with Icabalde they formed the Triumvirate that would upset the PM. When Parliament returned in the New Year there was likely to be an unpleasant incident in the Forum.
The PM eyed the papers suspiciously and slowly picked his way through the pile before pulling out one that caught his attention.
'Police Pounce on Pink Poodle.' His eyebrows arched as he read the first few lines of the lead article while he absentmindedly reached for another paper. Having absorbed the gist of the story he flipped to the other paper, 'Premier Powerless as Police Persecute Poodles.' His eyebrows furrowed further. 'I don't suppose Peter there is any relief from this?' The PM tossed the papers irritably aside.
Peter Porter looked flustered, glanced nervously around the room at the assembled Cabinet and began rummaging through the pile of newspapers strewn across table. 'Here's one,' he said with relief picking out a paper and passing it hurriedly to the PM, 'Father Christmas seen in Croydon High Street.'
YOU ARE READING
Wonga!
HumorPawser Bingham, Intelligence Officer, attempts to find a Russian mole within MI5, the British Secret Service. Ranged against him are an array of desperate criminals, deranged politicians, riotous women, a demonic horse and a fat chap who makes pies...
