Heavy
Banned
I have never written anything before, but since everyone in the PMQs thread is doing it, I thought it might be interesting to try.
It's pure fantasy. Not very well written. No planning went into it. Probably not plausible; it took me an hour and a half to write. Whaddya want for nuthin'?
----
The secretary replaced the phone in its cradle with a dull click. "The prime minister'll see you shortly."
Portillo glanced up from the newspaper. It was the first she'd spoken to him after the terse greeting when he'd arrived 15 minutes earlier.
The young woman behind the desk peered back briefly over her steel-rimmed glasses. She was stern-looking, hair in a severe bun, conservatively dressed too. Just how the prime minister liked it. They stared at one another awkwardly for a moment, then she returned robotically to the new computer on her desk and began clicking away at her keyboard. Probably writing up his opening sermon for the next PMQs. He sighed softly, folded his paper, and replaced it in his briefcase. He wasn't terribly interested in the latest presidential gaffes; the "extra-chromosome right-wing" one remark hit a bit too close to home these days.
Not for the first time in the past three years, he pinched the bridge of his nose and contemplated a career change. He'll probably be planning to request a dissolution before the year's out. Then we'll be rid of him. At this point, Mandelson's mob and a decade in the wilderness might be worth it.
How had it come to this? Probably all went back to the 1970s, the failure of one Agreement and the success of another. Portillo remembered it all well. He'd been a student then, and eagerly followed Powell's meetings with the UWC, the agreement with the hardliners, the electoral pact, the formal merger, and a dozen new Tory MPs in Westminster.
Well. Unionist MPs, to be technically precise.
Powell had gone soon enough. Powell had been the only one for whom He seemed to have a modicum of respect. Somehow, Biffen ended up leader after that. Somehow, He had ended up in Biffen's cabinet. Then Kinnock's lot got in - there'd been no somehow about that.
Then He became leader. Then He won the election.
Portillo remembered the first cabinet meeting: "We'll go back to basics!" the PM had practically bellowed as he gave the table an almighty slap, "We've stopped the terrorists, but a more insidious cancer is poisoning the morality of Christ's kingdom on Earth. And I'll tell you what it is: FORNICATION! FORNICATION! FORNICATION!"
They hadn't known whether to laugh or cry. Who thought this was a good idea? Major had looked about ready to throw his briefcase at the man. Even Widdecombe hadn't looked entirely comfortable. He'd long wondered if his predecessor had seen the sack coming; it was probably best he never told her what the PM had said to him on his own appointment, "We could not clutch a whore of the Anti-Christ to our bosom any longer, Michael." The sibilant little whistle he made on his s-sounds made it sound as ridiculous as it was menacing.
The girl glanced back at him, and surprised him by asking, "So you're our fella over here, then?" Portillo stared at her. She looked like she was more accustomed to grimacing than talking, Portillo allowed himself the vindictive thought. To be seen and not heard, he mused. Another thing the big man likes. He wasn't sure about her accent. Sounded a bit, what was the word? Culchie? Probably someone the PM had brought with him when he moved in.
Portillo took a wild guess.
"I'm Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, yes," he said slowly. The job nobody wanted.
"Ah," she replied, "Well, he's just finishing his phone call with Mr Robinson back home. He'll be with you in a minute." Mr Robinson. Portillo neither liked nor trusted him. He was an oily character. Halfway between a used car salesman and a henchman from an old gangster film, in Portillo's opinion. The PM had wanted him number-two to Redwood at the Treasury; thank God he'd been convinced to go with Farage instead.
Portillo sighed inwardly at that thought.He knew they'd dodged a bullet on that one, though over the past year or so, he'd started to wonder if letting him put Allister in the AG's office might have been too big a concession.
The phone rang again. His reverie broke as the secretary answered in hushed tones.
"Okay, you're fine to go in," she said. Portillo stood, crossed to the doorway and collected himself for a moment at the door to the Big Man's office. He knocked. A muffled reply of, "Enter!" and he steeled himself and went through.
Oh, dear God, he groaned inwardly. He's been decorating. Again.
The immense KJV on the podium didn't faze Portillo. Likewise, he'd inured himself to the massive landscape watercolour of the Battle of the Boyne that had replaced a whole wall of bookcases last time he'd been called in for a meeting.
The mannequin was new, though. As was the black suit, bowler hat and large, orange sash it was wearing. And here I thought he'd keep the Sunday best back in Belfast where it belongs, Portillo mused despairingly. He switched on a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Good morning, sir," said Portillo, as brightly as he could manage.
The prime minister heaved himself to his feet, and suddenly seemed to fill the entire room. From his place behind the desk of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the Big Man of Downing Street flashed him one of his jaundiced, crooked grins.
Rev. Dr Ian Paisley, Prime Minister (Conservative and Unionist) 1988-1996
It's pure fantasy. Not very well written. No planning went into it. Probably not plausible; it took me an hour and a half to write. Whaddya want for nuthin'?
----
The secretary replaced the phone in its cradle with a dull click. "The prime minister'll see you shortly."
Portillo glanced up from the newspaper. It was the first she'd spoken to him after the terse greeting when he'd arrived 15 minutes earlier.
The young woman behind the desk peered back briefly over her steel-rimmed glasses. She was stern-looking, hair in a severe bun, conservatively dressed too. Just how the prime minister liked it. They stared at one another awkwardly for a moment, then she returned robotically to the new computer on her desk and began clicking away at her keyboard. Probably writing up his opening sermon for the next PMQs. He sighed softly, folded his paper, and replaced it in his briefcase. He wasn't terribly interested in the latest presidential gaffes; the "extra-chromosome right-wing" one remark hit a bit too close to home these days.
Not for the first time in the past three years, he pinched the bridge of his nose and contemplated a career change. He'll probably be planning to request a dissolution before the year's out. Then we'll be rid of him. At this point, Mandelson's mob and a decade in the wilderness might be worth it.
How had it come to this? Probably all went back to the 1970s, the failure of one Agreement and the success of another. Portillo remembered it all well. He'd been a student then, and eagerly followed Powell's meetings with the UWC, the agreement with the hardliners, the electoral pact, the formal merger, and a dozen new Tory MPs in Westminster.
Well. Unionist MPs, to be technically precise.
Powell had gone soon enough. Powell had been the only one for whom He seemed to have a modicum of respect. Somehow, Biffen ended up leader after that. Somehow, He had ended up in Biffen's cabinet. Then Kinnock's lot got in - there'd been no somehow about that.
Then He became leader. Then He won the election.
Portillo remembered the first cabinet meeting: "We'll go back to basics!" the PM had practically bellowed as he gave the table an almighty slap, "We've stopped the terrorists, but a more insidious cancer is poisoning the morality of Christ's kingdom on Earth. And I'll tell you what it is: FORNICATION! FORNICATION! FORNICATION!"
They hadn't known whether to laugh or cry. Who thought this was a good idea? Major had looked about ready to throw his briefcase at the man. Even Widdecombe hadn't looked entirely comfortable. He'd long wondered if his predecessor had seen the sack coming; it was probably best he never told her what the PM had said to him on his own appointment, "We could not clutch a whore of the Anti-Christ to our bosom any longer, Michael." The sibilant little whistle he made on his s-sounds made it sound as ridiculous as it was menacing.
The girl glanced back at him, and surprised him by asking, "So you're our fella over here, then?" Portillo stared at her. She looked like she was more accustomed to grimacing than talking, Portillo allowed himself the vindictive thought. To be seen and not heard, he mused. Another thing the big man likes. He wasn't sure about her accent. Sounded a bit, what was the word? Culchie? Probably someone the PM had brought with him when he moved in.
Portillo took a wild guess.
"I'm Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, yes," he said slowly. The job nobody wanted.
"Ah," she replied, "Well, he's just finishing his phone call with Mr Robinson back home. He'll be with you in a minute." Mr Robinson. Portillo neither liked nor trusted him. He was an oily character. Halfway between a used car salesman and a henchman from an old gangster film, in Portillo's opinion. The PM had wanted him number-two to Redwood at the Treasury; thank God he'd been convinced to go with Farage instead.
Portillo sighed inwardly at that thought.He knew they'd dodged a bullet on that one, though over the past year or so, he'd started to wonder if letting him put Allister in the AG's office might have been too big a concession.
The phone rang again. His reverie broke as the secretary answered in hushed tones.
"Okay, you're fine to go in," she said. Portillo stood, crossed to the doorway and collected himself for a moment at the door to the Big Man's office. He knocked. A muffled reply of, "Enter!" and he steeled himself and went through.
Oh, dear God, he groaned inwardly. He's been decorating. Again.
The immense KJV on the podium didn't faze Portillo. Likewise, he'd inured himself to the massive landscape watercolour of the Battle of the Boyne that had replaced a whole wall of bookcases last time he'd been called in for a meeting.
The mannequin was new, though. As was the black suit, bowler hat and large, orange sash it was wearing. And here I thought he'd keep the Sunday best back in Belfast where it belongs, Portillo mused despairingly. He switched on a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Good morning, sir," said Portillo, as brightly as he could manage.
The prime minister heaved himself to his feet, and suddenly seemed to fill the entire room. From his place behind the desk of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the Big Man of Downing Street flashed him one of his jaundiced, crooked grins.
Rev. Dr Ian Paisley, Prime Minister (Conservative and Unionist) 1988-1996
