The grand, glass-ceilinged atrium of Portcullis House is modelled on the bow of a ship. Built at the same time as Jubilee Line Extension and subsequent redevelopment of Westminster Tube Station, it holds a number of committee rooms (all named after famous Statesman - and Jo Grimond) and office space for over two-hundred Members of the Parliament and their their staff. It is a bright, airy, and open building that is a perfect example of how a modern, 21st Century legislative building should work, and is therefore hated by the majority of people who have to use it.
Two of those people were engaging in an irate breakfast.
“Look at this bloody shower,” the MP for Shipley said, throwing a copy of
The Times onto the table.
Peter Bone looked impassively at Philip Davies before inspecting the front page, which was showing the three confirmed candidates for the Tory Leadership.
“Cammo rushed through the changes,” he replied, “but it’s irrelevant when these are the runners-and-riders...”
It had been a funny month. Cameron’s terse resignation as Prime Minister on the Tuesday afternoon following the election had been superficially eloquent, but clearly furiously written, and Ed Miliband had looked as surprised as anyone to have ended up standing in front of the most famous black door in the world (somewhere in the offices of the
Telegraph, Denial Hoxha had heard to have been morosely looking at fundraising opportunities for his streak down Whitehall.)
“Still,” Davies replied, “what’s the point in staying on when our best possible hope is Theresa May?”
‘Theresa May’ was said with the contempt usually referred to a man being introduced to his wife’s lover.
“‘No Woman No Cry’”, Bone noted, witheringly.
“I was always more of Millie Small fan, to be honest.”
“Still,” Davies continued, “better her than the H-word.”
“Or Soubry.”
“I still literally don’t know who she is, bar being the most unsound woman ever...”
“Still,” Bone continued, biting into an apricot Danish, “I don’t really see much hope for us
bar May. She’s at least vaguely supportive of the right, and we’ll be able to harrier her much more effectively during the campaign than either of the others.”
Davies pulled a face.
“Fuck knows why Liam won’t make an effort and stand.”
“You know full well why,” Bone said, eyes twinkling over the rim of his spectacles, “he’s still fending off the rumours that he’s a bent Willie Hague...”
The MP for Shipley looked like he was able to say something slanderous. He decided against it.
“Not like that, Phil, but still - I think you have a point - we need to find at least someone who’ll take the hit for us...”
“Let’s face it, it’s easier than it’s been for the likes of us since the seventies.”
“What has?”
Philip Hollobone had joined them.
“The new leadership rules.” Davies explained. Hollobone rolled his eyes.
“If the media hadn’t been so focused on the Balls Up and Nicola Sturgeon’s ‘Wee Free Plan’, we’d have probably been able to block them.”
“On the contrary,” Davies interjected, “it actually means that the membership have the potential to make a Real Choice” - the capital letters were dropped in with effortless precision - “rather than choosing between Jeremy “Naughtie is a Wanker” and Syriza May...”
Bone groaned.
“I think his middle name is Streynsha-” on the other table, one of the surviving LibDems sniggered into a cappuccino” “- but yes, I’ve never been so bloody miserable about the future of the Tory Party.”
Davies attempted to stretch languishly, not realising that he wasn’t tall enough to get away with it. Bone continued.
“We’re at the fag-end of a second Heathite leadership and all we’ve got fifty shades of Whitelaw.”
“Oh very good,” Hollobone said, “you’ve been practicing for HIGNFY?”
“Still,” Davies continued, “I’d have thought that we’d be able to get at least ten or so of the 1922 to get Liam over the line...”
“As I’ve said,” Bone continued, “he’s more bent than a party at Lord M-.”
Hollobone had been staring intently at one of the PFI fig trees.
“Hang on,” he cried, “didn’t I say that you’d be best off putting yourself forward?”
Bone looked befuddled.
“Did you? When?”
“On the Friday after the election? We were both knackered, but I swear that I’d suggested it.”
Davies’ smile was piranha-like.
“Oh...”
Bone had a glazed expression.
“Now...”
“Oh
yes”
“But I won’t win.”
“Who cares,” Davies yelled, before hushing his voice as Vince Cable walked passed, giving them a quizzical look, “you’ll still be sending a message.”
The MP for Wellingborough was still frowning, but now had his head to one side.
“Mrs Bone wouldn’t like it, but...”
“But nothing,” Hollobone yelled, “look we...”
Davies had taken out an iPad and was furiously tapping away.
“You stand for the authentic voice based on when Conservatism meant three-figure majorities...”
“Can you stand for a voice” Bone said dismissively. Davies ignored him.
“You’ve got the gravitas, you had basically untainted by the expenses scandal...”
“So were you, for God’s sake Phil, you don’t even have any
staff...”
“But you’ve got the air of experience, Peter” Hollobone retorted, “and more to the point - you’re the best contrast we’ve got with the likes of May, Socialist Soubry, and the Gynecologist.”
“I admit that I’m more Malbec than Chardonnay,” Bone contemplated, “but I’m still not sure.”
“Peter,” Davies said, “
Ed Miliband is the Prime Minister - I am rather sceptical of any further developments this year that could be any more absurd than you standing to become leader of the Tory Party.”
Bone was fiddling with the bottom of his tie.
“What would my gimmick be then,” he asked, “much as I’d like to just dust off the Alternative Queen’s Speech we did, you’ve see how bloody awful the dusted-off coalition crap went down two months ago. I’ll say one thing for Blair, he moved the Overton Window much further to the left than we thought.”
“We’re not Fascists, Peter,” Davies replied, doing his best to look like he knew what ‘Overton Window’ meant, “nor will be characterised as one. What we’re going to do is return proper, authentic, blue-collar Thatcherism to the core of the Conservative Party.”
Bone looked doubtful.
“It’s a bold mission statement, but so was the 1983 Labour Manifesto, aren’t we at risk from doing the same?”
Hollobone shook his head.
“No way,” he said, “and we wouldn’t be moving far to the right - we lost the election because of the messenger, not the message.”
“And I’m that messenger?”
“If it’s not you - it’s Mad Nad - and who the fuck want that?”
The other two men shuddered at the thought of Nadine Dorris as Leader of the Opposition. Davies mimed crossing himself.
“That said,” Bone said, “she’s got an authenticity to her.”
“So does Bradford,” Davies replied, “but doesn’t mean that you want to go there.”
“There’s still an image problem for me if
I go for it, which I haven’t said that I will do.”
“You’ll be fine,” Hollobone said, “you’re a much better media performer than you give yourself credit for - but we can still get some consultants in.”
Bone had started to nod.
“I’m starting to see how we can get an in,” he conceded, “but I’m concerned about a couple of things, “firstly, there’s the risk that we won’t even get the nominations from the party, the A-Listers and the Whips will see me as the Anti-Christ - and that’s before we get onto the very real possibility that Cameron rescinds his resignation.”
Hollobone double-taked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ed Miliband’s not safe yet,” Bone said, “the Queen’s Speech hasn’t happened yet - and you know full-well that Miliband is pressing ahead without guaranteeing the numbers to pass it. If the ScotsNats decide to vote it down and the Liberals abstain...”
“They won’t do that,” Hollobone said, “shades of ‘79.”
“Okay, it’s unlikely, but regardless, if the Queen’s Speech cannot pass - and the constitution is basically irrelevant at this point, then either Her Maj will give Cammo another crack at the whip, or we’re looking at an election in September.”
“We’re not fucking Greece,” Davies interrupted, “even if Balls is doing his best to emulate them.”
“I’ve never seen the man look so thoroughly miserable as he did when he was having to shake hands with Varouwhatshisnamelast week,” Hollobone said, “I thought he was going to cry.”
“He didn’t have to do the job if he didn’t want to.”
“You know full well that he’d have killed a kid to become Chancellor,” Hollobone replied, “anything else is just flotsam.”
“Flotsam?”
“Or jetsam, eh, whichever one you deliberately through overboard...”
“If we can move away from the principles of maritime salvage law” Bone continued, “we need - it’s jetsem by the way - we can’t rule out having two elections this year.”
“If we do,” Hollobone replied, “then it’ll be 1974 all over again and we have Ed Miliband getting a tiny majority - so we have five years of them buggering the country, rather than two.”
“You’re forgetting fixed-term Parliaments.”
“Fuck fixed-term Parliaments.”
Bone thought about it before nodded, that was his approach to it as well. He pressed on.
“Regardless, we need to have a core message before I even contemplate even
announcing that I’m running.”
“Shame Mrs T isn’t around, she’d have endorsed you.”
“I’ll put some soundings out regarding DD,” Davies mused, “he’d be...”
“Why isn’t he standing?” Bone cried suddenly, “he’s been totally vindicated.”
Hollobone pulled a face.
“He’s tired, and he’s a bit nutty now, especially after all that Ron Paul stuff.”
“He had a point though,” Davies said, “and tapping into that libertarian streak would be a great way of getting the youth vote.”
“What,” Bone cried incredulously, “all six of them?”
“There’s at least double that, they’ve got that Mark Twatfeatures running things now.”
Bone glared.
“Fine, okay, well, we still need the numbers.”
“Leave that to me,” Davies said, returning to the iPad, “I’ll speak to Brady about the 1922, he’s already said that he’d rather throw himself off the Terrace than serve under May. I’ll spin him some guff about Grammar Schools, that’s the sort of crap that he normally eats up.”
Hollobone smiled, already imagining himself as Foreign Secretary.
“I think we can do it,” he said, “I really think we can do it.”
Bone sighed.
“Fine, let’s make some calls.”
He gave a cruel smile at Hollobone.
“Philip, I think you’re going to regret not putting your phone bill on expenses...”
