A CRONY’S CHRISTMAS

There's been a lot of cronyism about, with luctrative contracts going to the friends of politicians...

The Prime Minister took his seat in the cabinet room and smiled benevolently at all the faces gazing at him. He knew himself to have trodden the fragile line between great statesmanship and popularity and he was totally convinced there can’t have been a man or woman or even child in the entire nation who didn’t think him to be fantastic.

“I’m fantastic,” he mumbled to himself, but the Home Secretary heard and found herself on the brink of giggling. Instead, she coughed and covered her mouth with a lacy handkerchief.

“Sorry,” she apologised, “I had a croissant for breakfast and a crumb must have got stuck in my throat.”

“It’s the slight congestion in Kent,” continued the Prime Minister, “it seems the Frenchies don’t like our version of the Covid Jonny.”

“Can’t say I blame them,” muttered the Health secretary, “it’s a vicious little b*****d, if ever there was one.”

“And you should know,” tittered a lesser minister.

“Order!” demanded the Prime Minister, “the thing is, we’ve got all those lorries with their manly drivers, and I do respect a manly driver, you know…”

“Especially when they’re women,” quipped the Foreign Secretary.

The Prime Minister chortled down his nose, grinned gratuitously and burped.

“Quite,” he said, “but the question is, the big question I think you’ll agree, is what are we going to do with so many hirsute men at large, all jonny foreigners and all with nothing to do but sleep and do unmentionable things into tissues?”

“You mean, Prime Minister, we ought to entertain them?” asked the Home Secretary, “we ought to arrange something special for them? A show, perhaps?”

“Maybe something along those lines,” nodded the Prime Minister, “but we need a plan. We need someone to organise it. Someone who knows a think or two about stuff like that.”

“I know an enterprising young creature,” put in the Health Secretary, “usually a waitress, the one who serves me spaghetti and loads of Parmesan at a little bistro I visit…”

“Not the blonde with the really long legs?” scoffed the Minister for War.

“She might seem like that to you, but to me she’s a perfect lady!” admonished the Health Secretary. “There’s nothing unwholesome about her at all,” he added, to give impetus to his claim, “in fact, I’d happily take my lady wife there any day of the week!”

“We can’t ask her,” interrupted the Prime Minister before the dispute became a fist fight with bloody noses and bruised egos, “she’s too young, if it’s the young lady I think you mean. Fifteen if she’s a day. You know what the BBC would say if we chose her!”

“They’d say what you told them to say,” grated the Treasurer, “now get on with it will you! I’ve got an appointment at noon.”

“I know a likely candidate. She’ll be up for the task in hand, I’m sure of it,” said the Prime Minister, slowly, “I think I’ll ask her. I owe her a big favour. She’ll do it. How much should we put up as a fee?”

“Is she a relative of yours?” asked the Home Secretary, “because you know what the commie press will suggest if it is.”

“No it isn’t, and anyway we’ll keep it to ourselves like we usually do. No advertising, no going through channels Mr Treasurer, how much can we afford?”

“Nothing, but that’s never stopped you before,” came the reply.

“Can we squeeze a couple of million out?” mumbled the Prime Minister.

“If you have to. After all, it’s only money,” giggled the man from Number Eleven.

“Two million it is, then.” said the Prime Minister, standing up.

“But who have I to write the cheque to?” asked the Treasurer.

“Miss What’s-Her-name, you know who I mean…” came the grunted reply, “leave it blank and she can fill it in. That’s all, lads, time for tiffins,” he added, “bags me the toad in the hole today, and then I’ll go and call on the lady. What official position shall I give her, and what shall I call her?”

“What you always do,” said the Home Secretary, “call her sweetheart…”

oo0oo

The Prime Minister had no trouble locating Winnie, the lady he had in mind for the job of entertaining a troop of bored lorry drivers. Others might have had to undergo time-consuming formalities before they got an audience with her, but he was instantly recognised, so everyone doffed their caps and mumbled humilities to him before giggling behind his back.

She was sitting in a straight-backed chair at a table and examining her shiny red nails when he walked in. She looked up and smiled, then winked.

“Good to see you, charmer,” she said, “’ow’s the wife?”

“Doing well,” he blushed, “you won’t tell her, will you?”

“What d’ya take me for, lush?” she asked, obviously offended, “I’m no grass ‘s long as I get tret right!”

“I thought of you straight away when it came to finding someone to organise entertainment for hundreds of stranded lorry drivers,” he began, “I know from personal experience how good you are at the, shall we say, more lurid side of entertainment.”

“You know me proper then, lush!” she cackled.

“Trouble is, you’re in here,” he said.

“I could buy mesen a pass from one of the screws I know,” she said slowly, “the one with the big you-know-what. I could pass ‘im a monkey and e’d give me a night, mebbe two, out, no questions asked.”

“You mean you want an ape?” he muttered, surprised, “I don’t know how I could get one in here!”

“Nah, you lush! A monkey’s five hundred smackeroons!”

“Oh. Is that all?”

“Course it is! I might be a lifer, but when it comes down to it, Winnie Whiplash usually gets the upper hand!”

“I’m sorry you ended up in here,” sighed the Prime Minister.

“It’s all right most of the time. Personal service, an’ all that”

“Pity about the bishop, though, you know the one that died…”

“The one that got me in here for life? How was I to know he had a weak heart? And it was him as begged for five ‘undred lashes on his bare bum! Stupid fool! But I tell you this, lush, it were a bootiful death with a smile on ‘is face when he met ‘is maker...”

The Prime Minister farted and hid it with a smelly cough. “Anyway, to business, Winnie. I’m authorised to pay you for your services. Will two million see you right?”

She nodded. “You are good to me, lush,” she said quietly, "do you fancy a quick turn 'fore the screws chuck you out?"

© Peter Rogerson 22.12.20

Author's Note

Note that it's December 2020....

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

You made me smile this morning. 2 million?? Must be damn good. I liked the honest conversation the lady Winnie. Hello my friend and Merry Christmas. Thank you for sharing the entertaining tale.
Coyote

[Peter Rogerson]

Thanks for your review. In my opinion you either get angry at the antics of the privileged or mock them.

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome my friend and Happy New year.