Typically the inside of a bar is rowdy, full of friendly and not so friendly bustle. When they're open, that is. It was well past closing time at a pub in Chiswick as a man with a slight resemblance to a frog began proudly puffing away at a treasured cigarette, secure with the knowledge that he had a baker's dozen more of them stashed away on the inside of his jacket pocket. After the day he's had, he thought he bloody well deserved at least one of them. Well, one and a nice little pint to go along. He simply loved both of them, and in tandem, it was his own personal heaven, regardless of what those in his closest of confidence advised him. He knew it caused his health to flare up but ah, "we'll get to that when we get to that?".
The man opposite was having none of it. He himself didn't mind a visit to the pub, but wasn't endeared to the booze and fags culture he viewed his companion of celebrating in. He thought it uncouth and unfitting of the party both men were meant to be representing to the best of their ability. After hearing one slow burn of ash too many, he piped up, crossing his arms in frustration. The dead air found itself interrupted. "I just want to say, Nigel -"
No sooner had the words exited his mouth than Nigel holstered the cigarette and nodded ever so slightly as if in anticipation of what to say. "- I would prefer Nige." He uttered it in his typical pub voice, a point of rancour for his companion, particularly when they spoke about matters such as these. The cigarette went back to its original place, in such a callous manner that something that really did rankle with his acquaintance, who now spoke in frustration. "Nigel, Nige, whomever you choose to refer to yourself as" - cattiness was not typically his style, but it felt befitting here - "What I was trying to say is that I've been speaking to those in the party about what to do, with, erm, regards to our, you know -" Nigel could sense his tripping over of the words and suppressed a smirk - "prospects." Right, thought Nigel, stop dancing around the matter.
"Is this about leadership? If you have to make a point, make one." Tension seeped as Nigel sought to establish his superiority, always a habit of his even in a room with as few as two inhabitants (three, if you counted the cleaner brushing away all the fags and broken glass into the corner). It was a habit not taken lightly by many, and even his allies found it just about bearable. It certainly seemed out of place in a party whose overbearing stereotype was of disinterested intellectuals more focused on a few patters of poetry or minor details in the manifesto than any grand scheme of victory. In that sense, it could be viewed as refreshing. He certainly viewed it that way, his companion not so.
"If I want to be frank, then yes, it is. And to be honest, I could very well turn that around on you Nigel." Bit harsh, thought Nigel. "You may not think it, but I have been reading the signals and signs -" Keep your head on, we're not in the land of tarot cards and palm readings. "Nigel, I want to put it straight with you." Another pause followed, this one brief but still lengthy in both their minds. "The words from HQ are that Tony is going soon. Not dying or anything like that - he's in good health, but he's shifting out of the leadership. I don't wish to demean you when I say that there'll obviously be some sort of contest as a result, but I was just wondering..."
Nigel, yet again, pounced upon this. "...Right, you'll be asking me about just what the hell I'm going to do. To tell you the truth Keith, I'm not entirely sure myself. While it would be great to have a party leader who can survive past Two Bloody Years -" Keith wasn't in the brightest of moods already, and this stringent attack on a man he could count on incensed him in a visible way. Nigel delighted in that, even if he didn't show it. "I'm not a liar when I say that it's on the table."
How gratifying to tell me that, thought Keith. "Regardless of what Tony does, there'll doubtless be some sort of struggle here. Now, I know we haven't been eye to eye on everything, but in any case, we'll have to do something together." The words 'Do we, really?' entered Nigel's head and danced around, just about failing to leave his mouth. "Interesting thought, I suppose. Whatever we do, it's important we don't lose track of the voters."
Keith was forced into a corner by this otherwise innocent comment. "But..." he stammered, "What voters?" It was both a serious inquiry and something that was intended to get Nigel to give a proper answer. Nigel had been thinking this over for years, ever since he truly got joined up. It was a question he somewhat reveled in whenever he was asked it, usually by someone he considered more clueless than himself. As such, it took little more than a second for him to respond with haste. "Well, whatever we do, we can't toddle along the way Tony wants us to. Those well-to-do merry men in Suffolk and Aberystwhatever may be good enough for Dorrell and Pantsdown, but we can do far better without them as an anchor around our necks, holding us back from breaking out."
Tough words from a Dulwich stockbroker, a thought both the cleaner and Keith had. "...and there is no bloody way we'll pivot to the red hordes. We're our own party." Keith spotted the dregs of his seemingly finished drink and downed it, the flatness of its taste bringing some discomfort. He spoke up, moving closer to Nigel and ruffling his own disheveled tie. "Who on earth do you say we go to if we can be neither left nor right?" The former option was more pleasing to Keith than the latter. Nigel had also given thought to this manner, which showed in his calculated (if delivered in his typical laddish way) manner. "It's not a matter of left or right or up or down. We get down to the ground level, talk about issues that actually bloody resonate. Migration is a touchy subject, but one we can go full speed ahead on, especially with that godforsaken Kosovo war." Keith was a little disgusted. Nigel continued, factoring this in. "Come on Keith, it's not as if Teddy was any better."
Keith was now in white rage. His movements became sporadic in a fit of anger. "For god's sake Nigel, Goldsmith -" he never liked using the first name, brought about an air of chummery - "is dead and well buried in a patch of dirt! Let me tell you summit, I am going to absolutely stand in your way if you want us calling for the sort of nonsense -" shite was a word in his mind, but he backed away from using it - "he did! We're not the bleeding National Front!"
Nigel had gone a little quiet. "Keith, neither was Teddy."
"He had me fooled a few times." Rain began pouring at an incredible level outside.
Nigel looked around the room and began squaring up against Keith in an attempt to keep level. "Can I ask you a question, Keith? It's no question that there have been difficulties -" he paced a little - "We go round the country on our bikes and our buses, but we never ask ourselves this question. What exactly do we stand for? I realise I'm getting a slight bit heavy handed here, but I'm being entirely genuine. What does the Green Party actually stand for as far as we can tell? Of course we know at its core, it's all about saving our trees, stopping the bad corporations from doing all sorts of nasty business in the Amazon. Am I right or wrong?"
Keith found little to disagree with there, even if it was simplistic. "Right, I suppose."
Nigel smirked and continued. "That's all well and good for you and Tony, but John Serviceman from Gloucester doesn't see how that affects him. Immigration doubles along with unemployment, that's what he notices. He doesn't peruse the Guardian or watch David Attenborough, you may not like it but it's certainly true. People are crying out for some bloody representation, and they aren't getting it. That's our chance, Keith, whether you like it or not."
Keith's prior disgust manifested itself in a more muted way. "It's a fair point I suppose, but I'm not sure I can enjoy playing on people's fears like that."
Nigel furrowed his brow as he inched towards his coat. "Keith, fears? We don't call it that. They're concerns. Concerns about their neighborhood, employment and that they're on the scrapheap, EU laws. Even Jenny can see eye to eye with me on that last one. I voted for us in 1989 because I thought we could show some steel. And quite frankly, if you can't, you and Sara may as well sod off to your three council seats in Brighton. There's no way I want that to happen." He donned his coat and picked up his brolly. Keith had a look of dejection as Nigel made his way to the door.
"One last thing, Nigel."
He turned around, the smirk having faded somewhat as he was to face the harsh conditions of the rain.
"If you do crawl in, don't let Icke back."
The smirk returned as the rain thundered and Keith sat down. As he did so, he could hear a faint calypso sound among the patters of the rain. A greeting soon followed. He knew what was going on, and felt as if he should dash out and do something. The party he loved was in his eyes going to fall to a charlatan. As he shuffled out of the stool, he heard Nigel's voice in his head. And then, a sigh followed.
Just leave it, Keith. The Green Party's coming home.
The man opposite was having none of it. He himself didn't mind a visit to the pub, but wasn't endeared to the booze and fags culture he viewed his companion of celebrating in. He thought it uncouth and unfitting of the party both men were meant to be representing to the best of their ability. After hearing one slow burn of ash too many, he piped up, crossing his arms in frustration. The dead air found itself interrupted. "I just want to say, Nigel -"
No sooner had the words exited his mouth than Nigel holstered the cigarette and nodded ever so slightly as if in anticipation of what to say. "- I would prefer Nige." He uttered it in his typical pub voice, a point of rancour for his companion, particularly when they spoke about matters such as these. The cigarette went back to its original place, in such a callous manner that something that really did rankle with his acquaintance, who now spoke in frustration. "Nigel, Nige, whomever you choose to refer to yourself as" - cattiness was not typically his style, but it felt befitting here - "What I was trying to say is that I've been speaking to those in the party about what to do, with, erm, regards to our, you know -" Nigel could sense his tripping over of the words and suppressed a smirk - "prospects." Right, thought Nigel, stop dancing around the matter.
"Is this about leadership? If you have to make a point, make one." Tension seeped as Nigel sought to establish his superiority, always a habit of his even in a room with as few as two inhabitants (three, if you counted the cleaner brushing away all the fags and broken glass into the corner). It was a habit not taken lightly by many, and even his allies found it just about bearable. It certainly seemed out of place in a party whose overbearing stereotype was of disinterested intellectuals more focused on a few patters of poetry or minor details in the manifesto than any grand scheme of victory. In that sense, it could be viewed as refreshing. He certainly viewed it that way, his companion not so.
"If I want to be frank, then yes, it is. And to be honest, I could very well turn that around on you Nigel." Bit harsh, thought Nigel. "You may not think it, but I have been reading the signals and signs -" Keep your head on, we're not in the land of tarot cards and palm readings. "Nigel, I want to put it straight with you." Another pause followed, this one brief but still lengthy in both their minds. "The words from HQ are that Tony is going soon. Not dying or anything like that - he's in good health, but he's shifting out of the leadership. I don't wish to demean you when I say that there'll obviously be some sort of contest as a result, but I was just wondering..."
Nigel, yet again, pounced upon this. "...Right, you'll be asking me about just what the hell I'm going to do. To tell you the truth Keith, I'm not entirely sure myself. While it would be great to have a party leader who can survive past Two Bloody Years -" Keith wasn't in the brightest of moods already, and this stringent attack on a man he could count on incensed him in a visible way. Nigel delighted in that, even if he didn't show it. "I'm not a liar when I say that it's on the table."
How gratifying to tell me that, thought Keith. "Regardless of what Tony does, there'll doubtless be some sort of struggle here. Now, I know we haven't been eye to eye on everything, but in any case, we'll have to do something together." The words 'Do we, really?' entered Nigel's head and danced around, just about failing to leave his mouth. "Interesting thought, I suppose. Whatever we do, it's important we don't lose track of the voters."
Keith was forced into a corner by this otherwise innocent comment. "But..." he stammered, "What voters?" It was both a serious inquiry and something that was intended to get Nigel to give a proper answer. Nigel had been thinking this over for years, ever since he truly got joined up. It was a question he somewhat reveled in whenever he was asked it, usually by someone he considered more clueless than himself. As such, it took little more than a second for him to respond with haste. "Well, whatever we do, we can't toddle along the way Tony wants us to. Those well-to-do merry men in Suffolk and Aberystwhatever may be good enough for Dorrell and Pantsdown, but we can do far better without them as an anchor around our necks, holding us back from breaking out."
Tough words from a Dulwich stockbroker, a thought both the cleaner and Keith had. "...and there is no bloody way we'll pivot to the red hordes. We're our own party." Keith spotted the dregs of his seemingly finished drink and downed it, the flatness of its taste bringing some discomfort. He spoke up, moving closer to Nigel and ruffling his own disheveled tie. "Who on earth do you say we go to if we can be neither left nor right?" The former option was more pleasing to Keith than the latter. Nigel had also given thought to this manner, which showed in his calculated (if delivered in his typical laddish way) manner. "It's not a matter of left or right or up or down. We get down to the ground level, talk about issues that actually bloody resonate. Migration is a touchy subject, but one we can go full speed ahead on, especially with that godforsaken Kosovo war." Keith was a little disgusted. Nigel continued, factoring this in. "Come on Keith, it's not as if Teddy was any better."
Keith was now in white rage. His movements became sporadic in a fit of anger. "For god's sake Nigel, Goldsmith -" he never liked using the first name, brought about an air of chummery - "is dead and well buried in a patch of dirt! Let me tell you summit, I am going to absolutely stand in your way if you want us calling for the sort of nonsense -" shite was a word in his mind, but he backed away from using it - "he did! We're not the bleeding National Front!"
Nigel had gone a little quiet. "Keith, neither was Teddy."
"He had me fooled a few times." Rain began pouring at an incredible level outside.
Nigel looked around the room and began squaring up against Keith in an attempt to keep level. "Can I ask you a question, Keith? It's no question that there have been difficulties -" he paced a little - "We go round the country on our bikes and our buses, but we never ask ourselves this question. What exactly do we stand for? I realise I'm getting a slight bit heavy handed here, but I'm being entirely genuine. What does the Green Party actually stand for as far as we can tell? Of course we know at its core, it's all about saving our trees, stopping the bad corporations from doing all sorts of nasty business in the Amazon. Am I right or wrong?"
Keith found little to disagree with there, even if it was simplistic. "Right, I suppose."
Nigel smirked and continued. "That's all well and good for you and Tony, but John Serviceman from Gloucester doesn't see how that affects him. Immigration doubles along with unemployment, that's what he notices. He doesn't peruse the Guardian or watch David Attenborough, you may not like it but it's certainly true. People are crying out for some bloody representation, and they aren't getting it. That's our chance, Keith, whether you like it or not."
Keith's prior disgust manifested itself in a more muted way. "It's a fair point I suppose, but I'm not sure I can enjoy playing on people's fears like that."
Nigel furrowed his brow as he inched towards his coat. "Keith, fears? We don't call it that. They're concerns. Concerns about their neighborhood, employment and that they're on the scrapheap, EU laws. Even Jenny can see eye to eye with me on that last one. I voted for us in 1989 because I thought we could show some steel. And quite frankly, if you can't, you and Sara may as well sod off to your three council seats in Brighton. There's no way I want that to happen." He donned his coat and picked up his brolly. Keith had a look of dejection as Nigel made his way to the door.
"One last thing, Nigel."
He turned around, the smirk having faded somewhat as he was to face the harsh conditions of the rain.
"If you do crawl in, don't let Icke back."
The smirk returned as the rain thundered and Keith sat down. As he did so, he could hear a faint calypso sound among the patters of the rain. A greeting soon followed. He knew what was going on, and felt as if he should dash out and do something. The party he loved was in his eyes going to fall to a charlatan. As he shuffled out of the stool, he heard Nigel's voice in his head. And then, a sigh followed.
Just leave it, Keith. The Green Party's coming home.
