*** Weekend Write-In for 14 Jun 2019 ***
"trouble": In 500 plus words, tell what happens when there is trouble
STATESMANSHIP
One week ago - Buckingham Palace.
'And this is Mr B'stard, Mr President.'
'Ah, good to meet you Mr Bastard. I've heard good things. Good things. Bannon said ...'
Alan quickly took the President's hand. 'No need to mention him, here, Mr Prez. Donald ... I may call you Donald, mayn't I? I almost feel I know you. Read every tweet. Big fan. Oh and this must be your lovely wife, Melanie!'
The First Lady looked the upstart politician over, as her husband was rendered speechless for once. 'Melania. But I think perhaps you know this, Mr Bastard.'
Alan took the First Lady's hand. 'Call me Alan.' He licked his lips lasciviously.
'Alan ... you are member of parliament, yes?'
'The biggest member in the house, Melanie.'
'This means?'
Alan glanced down the hall. 'I have the largest majority ... Oh look, your husband's wondered off with her maj and the rest of the party. Have you seen this room?'
'No. Is significant? Historical?'
B'Stard propelled the First Lady into the room. 'Not particularly, but its as good a place as any to explain my large majority!' He entered in behind her. 'Oh, and do let me know if your hubby has any well paid international advisory roles opening up!'
Exactly 3.7 minutes later, the MP for Haltemprice, exited and zipped up his flies. 'Don't forget to remember me to Donny!' he called back into the room.
Now - June 2019, Commons Bar, Houses of Parliament, Westminster.
'Sit down B'stard. No doubt you'll be wondering why you've been called before the 1722 committee.'
Alan took a leather chair. 'Mind if I sit here? After all, old Totty won't be needing it, and can you call yourself a committee when there's just three of you now?'
Commodore Aethelstan Thrashley-Boater, MP glared at the younger man. 'You'll show respect, young Bastard. Totterley Bingham Smythe was a fifty year man. Great Conservative. Great leader. Almost led us into a new age, but that damn Chamberlain got the leadership.
Alan nodded and took the old man's brandy glass from his hand. 'Well yes, but the way I heard it was that if Totty had got the nod, we'd all be sprechen sie the deutsch now. CIGAR!'
A passing waiter instantly placed a large havana in Alan's hand, as the ancient Thrashley-Boater spluttered with indignation.
'Light.'
The waiter hesitated. 'I'll fetch a lighter, Sir.'
As he went to move off, Alan's foot extended and kicked him in the rear, sending him sprawling. 'Faster, you oik.'
The youngest of the trio sitting opposite Alan, no more than a sprightly 70, leaned forward. 'In the old days we would have his kind shot. But I suppose being sacked without reference and blackballed from the service industry, will have to suffice. And a jolly good thrashing to be sure. I'll send my man to beat him later, BAHHHH! Now ... to business B'stard.'
The Rt Hon Gervaise Arrsecourt-Melchett looked Alan square in the eyes. 'As you know, we in the 1722 committee are ... shall we say, somewhat more robust in our Conservatism than those namby pamby centre left liberal "trousers down, bottoms out" Euro appeasers of the 1922 committee and the ERG.'
B'stard nodded. 'I'd heard you were slightly right of Hitler.'
The hon member's face creased into a frown. 'Slightly! SLIGHTLY!!! Bahhh! Hurumphh. Anyway, down to brass tacks. We need an insider in the upcoming race.'
Alan gasped. 'You mean ... but what about Boris? I thought your lot were behind him, ever since you engineered the conditions for Theresa May's downfall. And ... Cameron's?'
Arrsecourt-Melchett smiled, a sickly skin crawling grimace of amusement. 'We've been in charge of outcomes, ever since Maggie, God rest her.'
'Even Tony Bl ...'
'One of our finest, though we suffered a setback when the Scot slipped through the net, bahhhh. But we course corrected with a bit of a Conservative-Lib Dem mishmash to ease the public back into a Tory resurgence.'
Sir Eustace Revel-Forbes leaned forward. 'That was a masterstroke and then of course, we dumped em in 15' and had Cameron push for a referendum. Course we told him Remain would win!'
All four Conservative MP's laugh heartily.
Arrsecourt-Melchett finished his brandy and with a large "Bahhhhhh" smashed the glass against the far wall, and called for "More brandy, damn you!"
'Boris isn't playing ball, so he's out, B'stard. Thinks the public couldn't stomach a pact with our man, Farage. So we need someone else!'
Alan affected surprise. 'Moi? Gentleman I'm honoured.'
Arssecourt-Melchett uttered another "BAHHHH" and set a curtain on fire, to light his cigar with the flames. 'Deal with that, will you ... and more brandy or I'll have all your heads and your jobs, in that order!' he snarled, as several bar staff rushed over with extinguishers.
Then he leaned forward. 'B'stard, you're a slimy, backstabbing, reactionary, profiteering boil on the backside of humanity, who would sell his own grandmother to a Saudi Sheikh if it meant a huge pay packet and a Directorship of several boards! In other words, you'd be the perfect candidate ... but unfortunately your record is too blemished. We'd never get the votes to get you through to the final two. No, what we need is a ringer ... someone you can control, someone we can lend our block support to, and see our real candidate through, against Boris!'
Alan sat back and pursed his lips, touching the tips of his fingers to them. 'And why should I do this for you?'
The younger of the three old men smiled evilly. 'For a huge pay packet and a Cabinet seat when Michael wins.'
Alan grinned and scanned the commons bar. 'In that case, I'm in. And I think I have just the candidate for the job!'
He beckoned across the room and a fellow MP scurried towards them.
CONTINUED