Boris and the Curious Case of Brexit
This is the tenth entry in the satirical series at https://www.abctales.com/collection/pandemic-tales-bojo-and-co
Boris and the Curious Case of Brexit
The gentleman’s club in Pall Mall was busy today. Leather-studded chairs hosted the privileged elite of society, black-tied waiters buzzing quietly amongst patrons. In a discreet corner of a grand room sat two men. A coffee table made of walnut was positioned in-between them, on it cut-glass crystal tumblers of whisky. Oil paintings hung from walls as ornate chandeliers dangled from alabaster ceilings.
The blond, shaggy haired man shook his head and dust gently flew into the air.
“Good idea of yours, Dom. Um…erm…yes, about time we buried the hatchet.” Boris reached down and took the glass in his hand, raising it to his mouth to take an appreciative sip.
“Ah yes, it’s a shame it came to this. You will be missed. Well, your parties will, former PM.” The man in the other chair was balding. He had small, fox-like eyes and a semi-permanent sneer. His diction was quietly spoken, the language of a former mandarin. It was in contrast to the Eton-schooled, pompous bluster of his counterpart. Boris winced at the use of “former PM”.
“Ah…I think you’ll find that I’m still the existing PM until a replacement is found. A caretaker, if you will.” The blond-haired man puffed his chest out.
Dom looked across the room absently then back down at his laptop. He was mid-sentence on his latest blog entry. He pondered what more could be done to gain revenge at his ousting from government. Both Boris and Carrie Antoinette had been successfully eased out of Number Ten. There would be no more choosing expensive wallpaper and creative accounting to fund it going on. He had seen to that.
“Did you hear my leaving speech in Parliament? Hasta la vista, baby!” Boris grinned and winked at Dom. The ex-Whitehall official grimaced, noting the parliamentarian’s smart attire. A black velvet jacket covered a white shirt and tie. Sharp-creased, black trousers and shiny black shoes completed the suave, debonair image offsetting the wild thatch that passed for hair. Whilst looking neat and tidy himself, he had dispensed with a tie and wore a tan jacket with black shoes. They both blended in with powerful, shadowy figures that frequented the exclusive establishment in London.
“Sooooo…..other than the catch up, do remind me what else you wanted to talk about, PM.” Dom’s eyes glistened with cunning, his entire body alert for opportunities of self-interest.
“Ah yes…well….um.” The blond-haired man leant to the other side of his chair and reached down. Righting himself, he produced a small, brown plastic box with a carry handle. On it were several labels, all of which read “oven ready”. Boris clutched the object with both hands, glaring over at Dom in a conspiratorial manner. Before he could explain further, a tall, thin waiter with a napkin draped over his forearm loomed over them.
Both men looked up.
“Ah Rishi. I didn’t realise that you were here today.”
“Good morning, PM. Mr Cummings. Can I replenish your supplies?” Dom glanced curiously at the man that had just arrived wondering why one so rich would be involved in such a lowly endeavour. Rishi Rich was married to one of the world’s richest women, never mind his own wealth.
“Ah, I suppose you are wondering what I’m doing.” It was a rhetorical question that was said in a tone that oozed charm and geniality.
“Well…um…yes.” Blustered Boris still quietly seething from the revolt led by his former chancellor. The politician admired the guest waiter’s neat hair, his twinkling eyes and oversized ears. This was the face of the future. Maybe.
“Let me explain. This is a dry run for one of my innovative economic policies for when I become the next Prime minister. It will be called “Eat out to Help Out”. And I will be out there, amongst the pleb…..um….people leading from the front.” Rishi smiled, satisfied with the explanation.
Boris’s brow creased as he processed the information. He struggled with the idea of someone else being the prime minister and harboured hopes that a petition to have him instated into the leadership race would work. After all, he had achieved so much in one of the shortest tenures on record. There was Brexit and the Pandemic response to name but two things. Yes, there had been collateral damage like the odd bit of lost trade with Europe, the problems with the Northern Ireland Protocol fanning the flames of insurrection in Ireland and a few hundred thousand folks meeting an untimely end due to Covid but…..otherwise…..an unprecedented run of policy successes.
“Incidentally, what have you get there, Mr Johnson? That looks interesting.” The faux waiter looked quizzically at the box stationed on the PM’s lap. The change to use of surname harked back to better days when the men got on.
The blond-haired man had forgotten about picking up his secret object. He pondered whether to make something up. A cover story of some kind. A lie, perhaps. Many had accused him of lying recently. He never knowingly lied. He just bent the truth to his advantage. Isn’t that what all politicians did? It was like never answering a question during a media interview. Just give a response to an entirely different question. One you would have preferred to have been asked.
“I shouldn’t tell you this, Mr Sunak. In fact, I haven’t had a chance yet to confide in my old mucker, Dom. Come closer, though. You will need to know this if you manage to overcome the Truss.” Both Dom and Rishi looked at each other. They were initially confused at the truss reference and thought that the PM had been wearing his protective box during cricket again. They eventually realised he was talking about Rishi’s opponent in the leadership contest – Liz Truss.
The heads of all three men were now within millimetres of each other in a bizarre, cranial huddle. “OK….so…please look at this box. Now Michael Gove entrusted me with this some time ago. I feel it’s time to share this secret.”
Rishi and Dom both drew breath, waiting for the expose.
“And you both know that Michael is an honourable man.” They all simultaneously had an image of a Michelin man ringed by tyres.
“So…..this box, gentlemen…..this box is…..” The tension was becoming unbearable as Rishi hopped on one foot fretting about serving his next customer. Dom’s eyes were alive with thoughts of the next release on his subscription website.
“Yes….this is….Brexit.” The final word was uttered in hushed tones.
The men all looked at each other stunned by the revelation.
“Brexit.” Muttered Dom incredulously.
“Shhhhhh…..we don’t want people to hear.” The PM’s eyes darted about the room.
Close by, a newspaper rustled and a pair of eyes covered by sunglasses appeared over the top of it. The woman’s mobile phone rang and Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor filled the air. She quickly silenced the device before any further commotion could be made. Blood dripped from her fangs and onto the floor. Women didn’t frequent the club as a rule but the use of Bela Lugosi mesmeric eye trances had smoothed the way in for the vampiress. Priti continued listening intently.
Rishi thought about the revelation for a few seconds then asked.
“Could you explain how the box is Brexit, PM? Are you talking in metaphors?”
“Well look. Now that I am longer to be Prime Minister, the Deep State will do everything they can to reverse Brexit. Gove has fully briefed me. Brexit is, in fact, contained in this box. To preserve it for posterity, all one needs to do is to ensure that the box doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”
Dom and Rishi exchanged incredulous glances again.
“When Gove told you this, PM……was he…erm….laughing at the time?” Dom was caught in between the desire to guffaw out loud and clonking the blond-haired man on the side of the head.
Boris screwed his eyes and thought about the question. He cast his mind back to the meeting with Michael Gove just after he had sacked him as a minister. He remembered being taken into a corner of his room, handed the case, given the explanation and watching Gove disappear. Come to think of it, the former minister did appear to be grinning as he turned away. What could this possibly mean?
“Ummmmm……I don’t think so. I mean, we did have a bit of a falling out. He wanted me to resign as PM. You don’t think…”
It was at that moment that they all turned to hear a creaking sound. The final screw was being turned that held a chandelier in place above their heads. Where the regal lighting once was, a hole had now appeared in the ceiling which was quickly filled by the faces of climate change protesters. In a moment of panic, the blond-haired man ducked, instinctively tossing the spurious container into the air. It landed a few feet away on purple-patterned carpet. Fortunately for the three men, the chandelier landed squarely on the Brexit box and not on them.
All conversations in the room stopped abruptly. All eyes were on the amalgam of dust, twisted steel, broken glass and a box that had a large gash in its side.
“I don’t think Brexit is working so well.” Mumbled Dom smiling.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents
are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental
Image free to use via WikiCommons at https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Savile_Club_New_Bar_2.JPG