He trudged wearily up the aircraft steps. Just a quick glance round, just an airport. No idea where he was. The night before had been lonely and sleepless. He had felt just a little better after trashing his room and raging at his staff. Yet, after the Nokias had all been taken away, a new suite found and he had at last calmed down, he was on his own. Out of pure curiosity he switched on the steel encased, bullet proof screened TV. Station after station were “Strasbourg” this, MEPs that, a dapper duo of nice looking men featured all over The European media. Still, at least not a word would be revealed back in Blighty.
His worst and most awful feelings hit him when he viewed the flash images of his cowering under the blows, his “fatal to angels” smirk, so obvious a lie to cover his fury.
Back in his room he begged for his Snake Oil Svengali. Only to be told he was entertaining the Strasbourg boys’ youth orchestra and the trumpet solo could not be interrupted. The bastard. Never around when you needed him. Why the fuck did he not realise I was to be ambushed! He’s supposed to be mates with The Governing Council and Stazi European ruling cabal.
His mind returned to the morning, as he entered the chartered “sumptuous only” jet. His first dim sight was Snaky, reclining in a huge seat, a young boy at his feet and champagne and caviar all around. He moved towards his own chair. Toenails averted his gaze, the remainder of the favoured, once loved hacks all fell silent. They too looked away.
The steward, on this male staff only flight, bent to help him settle and fasten his belt. “Have you eaten, Sir?” he enquired. Then, fatally, asked how he had enjoyed Strasbourg and The EU week-end retreat and spa. Though restrained the scruffy, unkempt figure screamed a mighty chilling roar, familiar to many seated around him. The belt was flung open , he leapt to his feet, mouthing "hannanfarage" in an Islamic chanting sound. In his path all he could see was an image of the new blog heroes of Britain. He hurled forward and with a mighty swing of a Nokia laden fist he clunked the young man so hard he stumbled backwards, through the still open door and 20 feet onto the tarmac below. His last visible moment was the steps moving backwards away from the fuselage.
Over the tannoy came the Captain’s voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there may be a short delay to our departure.”
The embarrassed silence throughout the aircraft remained as he slumped back in his seat. The ever present Harley Street team clustered around the isle and the seat, now wet and stained.
Back in the hacks' boudoir a number of whispered conversations arose, the main theme, "What happens when he finds out The King has met The Queen?"
The aircraft began to push back from the stand. Outside was an escort of heavily armed policemen and armoured vans. One officer could be seen draping a straight jacket, unbuttoned, behind him.
In the terminal a very sore and wounded young man was speaking into a mobile, "Is that Max Clifford?".