TERESA JUNE AND NORRIS

A little satire on the current political situation in the UK. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Teresa June stood on the top rung of the tallest ladder ever made and screeched “HELP!” at the top of her voice.

“What is it?” asked Norris from his safe place on the ground, his unruly hair like a skinned ginger Tom on his head.

“I'm stuck! Can't you see, idiot?” howled Teresa.

“Who are you calling an idiot?” blustered Norris. “It's not so wise calling a fellow an idiot when you need his help even if you know with one hundred percent certainty that he is an idiot!”

“Then I'm sorry,” mumbled Mrs June. “I didn't mean that you're an idiot.”

“Yes you did,” retorted Norris, his blonde wig lifting in the breeze. “Anyway, you'd best describe your problem because, well, I'm not quite right in the head and can't work things out so well.”

“If you're not careful you'll lose your scalp,” pointed out Teresa helpfully.

“That I won't!” he barked. “I paid enough for this topper! It's guaranteed!”

“Help me,” she whimpered, suddenly feeling light-headed as she looked down from her enormous height and saw the way distance dqarfed him so that he looked more like a mouse than a man.

“If you'll tell me what you want, dear lady,” he replied, and then guffawed, “and by the way I can see up your skirt!”

“Don't be so filthy, Norris!” she begged him. “And don't you dared look!”

“I can see your thong...” he tittered.

“Just help me, please...” she beseeched him, trying to tuck the hem of her skirt between her knees.

“It's pink,” he told her, “A lovely pink thong from M&S, by the look of it. I know al about M&S underwear. I've made a study of it. It took my mind off the job when I had an important London job. You can't get better than M&S!”

“Help me down...” she whimpered. “I never really wanted to climb right up here, to the very top of the ladder. All I really wanted was to make ordinary poor folk miserable and rob them blind until they go away or drop down dead. And now look at me, at the top of this ladder and I can't see any way down.”

“There isn't,” Norris told her. “If you look, all the rungs have gone. There's just the one you're standing on, and no more.”

“So what shall I do?” she wailed.

“Stay there?” he suggested. “Stay at the top of your ladder. Maybe a Frenchman or a German will come by and rescue you! They're good at that, are the French and Germans! They've only got to see a damsel in distress and they're all over her, pink thong and all!”

“Where have all the rungs of my lovely ladder gone?” she wept, her tears big and juicy and salty.

“They fell off,” he murmured.

“Fell off?”

“Well you put your friends on them and those friends were too plain heavy, so the rungs fell off. It's what happens when a tart in a pink thong thinks she's clever.”

“Shut up about my underwear!” she shouted “And climb up here and help me!”

“No way,” grinned Norris. “What do you think I am? An idiot?”

“Everyone knows that's exactly what you are!” hissed Teresa June spitefully. “You're an idiot!”

“I know...” he warbled. “Watch me … I'm going to dance away … they might even invite me onto Strictly… that's a good programme, that is … Norris in the arms of a gorgeous young dancer with immense bosoms … what huge fun!”

“Come back!” she ordered.

But he didn't. “Stay there in the heights,” he scoffed as he high-kicked round a bend in space-time, “stay up there and let the clouds surround you with their moist kisses until you're throughly soaked and catch pneumonia. See if I care. Or anyone. See if anyone cares!”

“But I'll be all on my own...” she wailed.

“Of course you will, Mrs June,” he cackled, pirouetting. “It's what happens to those who climb so high on broken ladders. They say it's the loneliness of high office, but I call it egotism.”

And he disappeared out of sight, where he belonged.

© Peter Rogerson 15.07.16