seem to bother anyone.
'Did you hear it?' said the PM. 'Did you hear it?
They looked around the room at each other, wondering if he was talking about another one of the Chancellor's farts.
'Liar! He called me a liar!'
'Oh that,' said Williams, and Thackeray nodded and looked back at the notes he was making for the following day's keynote speech. Barney shrugged and turned back to Barber's Monthly, with all the news on the latest scissor technology coming out of the big hairdressing technology industries in Nevada.
'Liar!' repeated the PM. 'He called me a liar! A liar! I mean, do I say that he's the spawn of the undead? But it's going to come to that. Liar! Jesus suffering Christ!'
'Well you are,' said Thackeray matter-of-factly, looking up from his notes.
'What?' said the PM.
'Well, you know, you are a liar. You lie all the time. I write your speeches, and they're full of lies.'
The PM looked a bit taken aback, wasn't sure what to say.
'I mean, it's no big deal. You're a politician, of course you lie. Everyone expects you to lie. Even if you told the truth, everyone would think you were lying anyway, so you might as well just lie in the first place.'
'I think you should lie even more,' added Williams.
'But...' began the PM, but he wasn't sure what to say after that. Thackeray had a point after all. 'Well, there was also his line about the wishy-washy, pussyfooting government.'
Williams and Thackeray stared at him. Neither of them said, 'if the cap fits', but it was implicit in their eyebrows.
'You're saying I'm over-reacting?' said the PM eventually.
'Yes, Sir,' said Williams.
'Sit down and have a doughnut,' said Thackeray.
'Let me tell you about the new combs coming out of the States,' said Barney.
'Arf.'
––––––––
2213hrs
S aturday night, another day of the campaign behind them all, election day another day nearer. Barney sat alone in a bar just off Marble Arch, nursing a slow beer. Didn't want to drink too much, another early start with the PM's thinning hair the following day. Igor was having dinner with a couple of young American ladies on tour who he'd met on The Mall whilst out for a walk earlier in the day. The PM sat in bed in his pyjamas trying to concentrate on a report on world hunger for the following day. Eason and Grogan worked late, devising a stratagem which would allow Eason entry to Tory Party HQ.
And meanwhile, across the Atlantic, it was mid-afternoon in Virginia, where the real power lay, and where the real decisions which would affect the outcome of the British General Election would be taken. Except, it was a Saturday afternoon, and no one with any interest in it was at their desk.
Sunday 24th April 2005
1345hrs
A quiet Sunday, eleven days before the general election. Anywhere between a four and ten point lead for the government in the opinion polls in all the Sundays, and for all that the politicians and the media might try to make something of every little snippet they could get their hands on, it was dull, dull, dull and there was little that any of them could do about it. If only they'd all known that the Prime Minister's personal barber had been murdered with a chicken just over a week earlier. The leader of the opposition had turned to personal attacks on the Prime Minister's integrity, with his principal speech writers arguing over whether to call the PM a "liar", a "despicable liar", "very naughty and bad" or a "cheatin', lyin', bitch-slappin' muthafukka". The alternative opposition, in its desperation to break away from the 21% point mark in the polls, had finally turned to Iraq, which it had been holding off on for two weeks.
The Prime Minister was sitting on the London Eye with his main assistants Thackeray and Williams. Also along for the ride were his two new assistants, Barney Thomson, the barber, and Igor, the deaf-mute hunchbacked barber's aide, who had originally been brought in to deal with his hair, but were more and more becoming dragged into
'Did you hear it?' said the PM. 'Did you hear it?
They looked around the room at each other, wondering if he was talking about another one of the Chancellor's farts.
'Liar! He called me a liar!'
'Oh that,' said Williams, and Thackeray nodded and looked back at the notes he was making for the following day's keynote speech. Barney shrugged and turned back to Barber's Monthly, with all the news on the latest scissor technology coming out of the big hairdressing technology industries in Nevada.
'Liar!' repeated the PM. 'He called me a liar! A liar! I mean, do I say that he's the spawn of the undead? But it's going to come to that. Liar! Jesus suffering Christ!'
'Well you are,' said Thackeray matter-of-factly, looking up from his notes.
'What?' said the PM.
'Well, you know, you are a liar. You lie all the time. I write your speeches, and they're full of lies.'
The PM looked a bit taken aback, wasn't sure what to say.
'I mean, it's no big deal. You're a politician, of course you lie. Everyone expects you to lie. Even if you told the truth, everyone would think you were lying anyway, so you might as well just lie in the first place.'
'I think you should lie even more,' added Williams.
'But...' began the PM, but he wasn't sure what to say after that. Thackeray had a point after all. 'Well, there was also his line about the wishy-washy, pussyfooting government.'
Williams and Thackeray stared at him. Neither of them said, 'if the cap fits', but it was implicit in their eyebrows.
'You're saying I'm over-reacting?' said the PM eventually.
'Yes, Sir,' said Williams.
'Sit down and have a doughnut,' said Thackeray.
'Let me tell you about the new combs coming out of the States,' said Barney.
'Arf.'
––––––––
2213hrs
S aturday night, another day of the campaign behind them all, election day another day nearer. Barney sat alone in a bar just off Marble Arch, nursing a slow beer. Didn't want to drink too much, another early start with the PM's thinning hair the following day. Igor was having dinner with a couple of young American ladies on tour who he'd met on The Mall whilst out for a walk earlier in the day. The PM sat in bed in his pyjamas trying to concentrate on a report on world hunger for the following day. Eason and Grogan worked late, devising a stratagem which would allow Eason entry to Tory Party HQ.
And meanwhile, across the Atlantic, it was mid-afternoon in Virginia, where the real power lay, and where the real decisions which would affect the outcome of the British General Election would be taken. Except, it was a Saturday afternoon, and no one with any interest in it was at their desk.
Sunday 24th April 2005
1345hrs
A quiet Sunday, eleven days before the general election. Anywhere between a four and ten point lead for the government in the opinion polls in all the Sundays, and for all that the politicians and the media might try to make something of every little snippet they could get their hands on, it was dull, dull, dull and there was little that any of them could do about it. If only they'd all known that the Prime Minister's personal barber had been murdered with a chicken just over a week earlier. The leader of the opposition had turned to personal attacks on the Prime Minister's integrity, with his principal speech writers arguing over whether to call the PM a "liar", a "despicable liar", "very naughty and bad" or a "cheatin', lyin', bitch-slappin' muthafukka". The alternative opposition, in its desperation to break away from the 21% point mark in the polls, had finally turned to Iraq, which it had been holding off on for two weeks.
The Prime Minister was sitting on the London Eye with his main assistants Thackeray and Williams. Also along for the ride were his two new assistants, Barney Thomson, the barber, and Igor, the deaf-mute hunchbacked barber's aide, who had originally been brought in to deal with his hair, but were more and more becoming dragged into
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