So It Is Coming To Pass!
OK, 45 isn't that old, these days, were the thoughts crowding into his brain. Thinning hair could be seen as a sign of gravitas, couldn't it? Furthermore, his great hero and secret love, Bliar, was a bit challenged before the Nobby Neil like intervention. After all, what's the point of being in the elite club if you can't share hair transplant doctors and slimming pill secrets. Mind you he must remind Jeeves to not keep forgetting to provide his daily dosage. They really don't work if you miss even one day.
These musings were getting him down. Each time he allowed his mind to wander it just filled with awful thoughts and images. He was reminded of his childhood declaration that he would be PM one day. Be careful what you wish for, eh? That dream was one of heroic elevation to the Nation's adoration, not a poxy, back room deal with an EU shyster who coveted the job even more than he had done. It was never meant to be a Premiership based on sleight of hand. That trickery necessary, after failing to gain a resounding victory over the scruffiest, nastiest, mean spirited, dubious habit activist, nose picking, debt destroying, gold selling off cheap, maniac from a derelict and broken small town in the wilds of Scottish poverty.
This latter thought drifted on to the notorious bunker. It was never really far from his mind. His one brief visit had left a horrendous image. He had seen it opened for viewing just a few weeks into Office. It had been locked since the monster's last traumatic rage had been enacted. A rage so powerful as to have left pockmarks imprinted with Nokia, Samsung and many other such names, indented in the gas proof, heavy door's inner skin.
The stench of old whisky and soiled nappies had lingered. The shattered, sad and broken rocking horse stared with open eyed tragedy and yet somehow the relief of release. He had ordered the door be closed within seconds of this dreadful exposure. He had commanded the bunker fumigated and renovated forthwith, in a style he would suggest, when time and inclination permitted.
He returned to the 2012 Easter weekend. That wretched poll, his dismal lack of popularity and loss of confidence was a great, profound mystery to him. He was in the image of the great and dearly loved Bliar.
His own wife was almost as lovely, gracious and special as Bliar's Imelda.
Added to that he was stewarding the nation to special EU status as a preferred State within the Great EUSSR. He was sacrificing our soldiers, just as Churchill, Thatcher and Bliar had done. His baton carrying succession to Bliar was evident in the great battle to screw the Afghan nation for all they had. Keep the Taliban at bay for as long as he could borrow the billions necessary and the lives willingly given to "keep our streets, (Downing Street) safe.
In addition to all of those continuing successes, he had helped his dear and beloved friend across the now murky pond. Together they had implanted in hearts and minds the great victory in Iraq. A super power achievement only beaten in quality and superlatives by Vietnam! Just for a moment he felt a glow of warmth as he recalled his night-time sleep aboard Air Force One.
Most parents had to drive the kids round the block, in the Evoque, to lull them to sleep. Droning round in circles at thirty five thousand feet and a million quid an hour sure beat the former, bleary eyed efforts! Maybe privilege wasn't all bad. He must write that thank you note. He had also promised the Dude some postal vote information and tactical useage capabilities, he could kill two birds with one stone.
He stood up, feeling a little better until he caught a glimpse of the thin patch in the mirror. Then yet another wearying and depressing thought overwhelmed him. He was no longer able to ride his favourite mare. Rebekah was no longer prepared to give him a seat.
Indeed his favourite mount was no longer de rigeur. That flowing red main, the ever faster gallop and the whinnying snort as he completed his exhilarating and liberating ride through the joys of abandoned ecstasy to be found in the thickets and milky pastures of his beloved Oxfordshire's rolling mounds. Not only was that favoured escape no longer to be enjoyed, his own, home based pastures were cordoned off. Sam was no longer prepared to play ball with the "happy families" card deck. She was firmly in the game of snap!
He was now beginning to become drawn to the idea of the bunker refuge. Slowly the need for a womb like protection was compelling. He picked up the phone. "Mrs Harman, I have a favour to ask. Could you supervise the Bunker refurbishment in Number 10? I'd like it restored to a pristine state but exactly as it was initially set up for Cyclo....... I mean Gordon."
Harridan smiled a wry, self satisfied smirk. "Typical men", she thought. "As soon as the wheels come off they look to Mummy, with tears of incredulity in their eyes. The Nation needs a woman's touch and I know just the person." She put the phone down briefly, before voice activated dialling her own personal Wallace puppet.
Next.........the bunker re-opened.