DON’T BE SILLY, LIONEL

A rather strange;y opinionated man wants to lead the country!

I wasn’t a cheeky or even a naughty boy. I just wanted my ideas to be listened to, but the trouble was nobody seemed happy to pay any attention to what I had to say. I mean, what’s wrong with a ten year old brain that makes its thoughts in any way less than sensible? But no: Don’t be silly, Lionel they would say. It was like a record that wouldn’t stop playing.

Like when I decided that cats were the incarnation of the devil on Earth and ought to be systematically destroyed until the only cat was Puss in Boots in a story book. Nobody took a blind bit of notice of that piece of Lionel wisdom. Or that other time when I designed a propulsion system for my pedal car which meant I no longer needed to pedal, but I couldn’t find anyone willing to go to the garage with a gallon can for petrol for me, and they wouldn’t serve me. Yet I knew that it would work and now, in my forties, I still reckon I was right and the world missed out on a wonderful invention. But don’t be silly, Lionel, again.

Then I grew older, I got some power and people just had to damned well listen or it would be hard cheddar for them!

Now I’m where power really matters. I’m in Government. Not Prime Minister yet, but I’m on my way, and already people have stopped saying don’t be silly, Lionel. You see, I’m on my way to glory, and I’m taking the whole country with me! And I’m gong to resurrect some of the brilliant ideas I had when I was a boy, and now they’ll have to listen because I’m me! So watch out, cats! Your time is almost up!

I have an office as well, these days, and a secretary who sits in front of a computer all day long. I don’t have much time for computers, I’m afraid. Well no, I’m not afraid. Nothing like afraid! I’m confident that I’m right and that computers are the thing that’s weakening us as a nation.

I mean, ask someone a question and even if they know the answer off the top of their heads they still have to tap the keys of a bloody computer before they answer what is probably the simplest of questions.

So I’m wondering… are all the troubles of the world, in particularly that part of the world where I live, down to computers? Is that what’s wrong with the world? And if I were to order that all computers, from the tiny ones ignorant kids play with to the humongous ones that control empires, that all computers get melted down and their components used for something really useful, like plastic ducks for kids to play with in their baths because I never had anything to play with when I was in the bath as a kid aged ten, but my willy. And kids can’t be playing with those silly things all their lives, can they? Anyway, I have a shower these days and haven’t had a bath for ages.

Wouldn’t life be easier then. And no offensive machine under my secretary’s nimble fingers when those nimble fingers could be doing something more useful like making my coffee instead of her getting grumpy when I ask her something or other, because she’s busy.

Busy doing what? Tapping away on a computer keyboard when there’s a coffee machine just a few feet away from her.

If I had just a teeny bit more power I’d do that. In fact, when I’m Prime Minister, and I’m sure that I will rise that high in the world one day, I’ll make that my priority, along with cats.

“Miss Beddows,” I call to my secretary, interrupting her flow of typing when she’s busy and knowing that annoys her. Maybe that’s another thing I could ban when I’m Prime Ministers… secretaries, especially those like Miss Beddows who’s got to be fifty if she’s a day old and still wears naughty little mini skirts as if all I want to look at every day are her varicose veins. And I happen to know that she’s known as Miss Beddows, but she’s got a husband so shouldn’t be a miss anything, should she?

“Yes Mr Lionel?” she asks, smiling that big white-toothed smile of hers, her teeth contrasting against her scarlet lips like blood contrasts with snow. Not that I’ve ever seen that, blood on snow, but I can just imagine it.

“What time do I meet the PM?” I asked. That was such an easy question for her to answer so why has she turned back to her computer and clicked away at some of the keys until I feel like screaming. Then she replies, “Two o’clock,” in the sort of voice that suggests I ought to have known that anyway.

That’s it, then. When I’m Prime Minister it will be cats, computers and know-it-all secretaries for the chop, especially those who wear the sort of tiny skirts that would look good on them if they were twenty or thirty years younger.

“I’d better go then,” I grunted, “it being ten to two already.”

“Yes sir,” she replied, and flashed those teeth at me as if I could in any way be made interested in her mouth, her teeth or even her skirt.

The PM’s office was about as far away from mine as it could get because mine has been a broom cupboard until it transpired they needed space for me to do my work and for my secretary to tap away at her computer. Some sleazy b*****d I overheard talking about it when I was in the gents relieving myself suggested it was because the PM didn’t want me anywhere near him, and I know why.

You see, I’m an ideas man, I’m the one who drives himself to think the unthinkable if the unthinkable answers an important question, and the PM is too rigid in his thinking. And what this country needs is a man like me. I’ve even read it in the Daily Mail, which is my favourite read because every so often it mentions me. I’m not in any way big-headed, but I do think that I ought to be noticed, and that’s one thing the Daily Mail does.

I knocked on the PM’s door and after a disgusting wait I was ordered, rather rudely, I thought, to come in. I never treat people knocking my door like that, not that I get many people making enquiries of me. But if I were to I’d be all sweetness and light and they’d feel so welcome they’d want to hug me. Not that I like being hugged, at least not by anyone under the sun. After all, some people are so unhygienic that they smell.

That’s another thing that would go under my reign as pfime minster. Smelly people. Those who stink, both men and women. To the mausoleum with them and their fragrances. Let them rot along with cats and computers until there’s peace in the world.

But, annoyed by his peremptory tone, I went in anyway.

The Prime Minster was sitting at his desk with a nubile secretary just out of sight, kneeling next to him and making appreciative noise whilst he jerked a little as if he had ants in his pants.

“Ah, Lionel,” he managed to force out between the sort of gasps that made me think of heart attacks, “I wanted to see you… Yes, I’ve had a complaint and I take complaints very seriously.”

“So you should,” U said, and added “sir,”

His secretary, a pretty little thing wearing what made Miss Beddows’ skirt look gidantic, stood up, smiling and dribbling what looked like something unpleasant down her chin.

“Ah, Miss Luscious, have you finished?” he asked,” did you attend to the matter?”

“Twice,” she replied, flashing him a smile.

“Good girl,” he purred, ad then he looked up at me. ”Now let me see, what did I want to see you about?”

“Maybe cats or computers?” I prompted him, “the government of this country would be a great deal more efficient if you were to get rid of those two pests. And secretaries, of course, there’s be no need for secretaries if there were no computers.

“You seem to have a thing about cats, Lionel,” he said with a smile.

“I always have had my opinions regarding the sneaky little felines,” I assured him.

“Quite. But listen, I don’t want it to be spread about just yet, but I’m resigning and this country will need to replace me. It has been suggested that you would do the job as well as anyone because, in all honesty, it just about does itself. Miss Luscious won’t go with the job, unfortunately, I’ll need her in my new job, a very important role as the world turns and so on and so forth.”

“That’s all right, sir,” I averred.

“You didn’t ask me what my new job was going to be, Lionel,” he said, standing up and zipping his trousers up. “Darned zips, always coming down,” he grunted.

“So what is your new job to be, sir?” I asked.

“That’s a good question,” he grinned, “I’m to be leader of the opposition!”

“Sir…?” I queried.

“And you, Lionel, can do what you feel is best for the country. Did I hear that you occasionally mention cats?”

© Peter Rogerson 20.04.23

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