Rubber chicken

The worst part of my job is having to break bad news, ending people's careers, having grown men break down in tears in front of me, begging for a second chance.

Oh yes, make no mistake, there's a dark side to what I do. You have to be heartless. No matter how sorry you feel, the Party has to come first. Not just The Party now, of course, two Parties, joined in a coalition of lies and perversions, with none more perverted than Alex Daniels, Minister for… Well, Minister for fuck all if I'm brutally honest, Minister for being the fifth Lib Dem in the cabinet, Minister for making up the fucking numbers.

I knocked on his door and entered. I take the 'come in' as read, I don't have time to hang around outside doors waiting for Ministers to make decisions about whether or not to invite me in. Especially not Ministers like Alex Daniels, he'd call together a meeting of a sub-committee, launch an official report into door-opening possibilities. Alex Daniels is not the man you turn to for a decision about who to let into his own office.

Some people worry about just barging in, that they might catch someone in a compromising position. That concern doesn't arise with me. If you're shagging your secretary or doing something special with your Special Adviser I won't walk in on you, I already know. I know every time everyone in government gets their cock out, I even monitor Theresa May's fanny. I hear every slap and witness every tickle. They really don't pay me enough for what I do.

He looked up as I walked in. Alex Daniels. Smug twat. Perched up on his ministerial chair, behind his ministerial desk, playing ministerial patience on his ministerial computer.

"Oh, hello Martin. How can I help."

He smiled at me. Oh, don't try and win me over with a smile Alex. I launched straight in, I don't spend time in Alex Daniel's company for fun, straight down to business. "What's this Minister?"

"Er, it's a rubber chicken."

"Ah, so you admit it."

"Well, I can hardly deny the existence of a rubber chicken when it's there in front of me. I'm not a philosopher."

"Astoundingly funny Minister, I hope you'll include the joke in your resignation letter."

That shut him up. You could see him visibly deflate, the great bladder of air that he is, he suddenly became a paler, thinner version of himself.

He eventually managed a two-word answer. "I see."

"Oh, you see do you, is it because you showed the wisdom and insight to pop into SpecSavers on your way to work? Or by "I see" do you by any chance mean, 'ah, you've found out about me and the prostitute and the rubber chicken'?"

"My glasses have designer frames, I wouldn't go into SpecSavers as long as…"

"As long as you're still receiving a Ministerial salary. Well that might not be very long. You see, I was woken early this morning by the Sunday Mirror, warning me that they're going to publish a story this weekend. Yawn, who cares, I thought, nobody reads your rotten leftwing rag, it's probably some trivial thing that can be dismissed with a three word slogan. 'Yes a million public sector workers are about to lose their jobs, but they're not proper jobs so it doesn't matter.' Crisis averted, back to bed to finish that dream about Wayne Rooney. But no:

"'Sorry to wake you'," the journo giggled, clearly delighted to have been elevated in the power stakes to the same level as my alarm clock, and doubtless adorned with an identical mickey-mouse face and grin. 'I just thought I should warn you that we're running a story about the Minister for Marriage, Family, Marriage and even more Marriage visiting a prostitute. A prostitute who he pays to spank him with a rubber chicken'.

"So let me ask you again, do you recognise this chicken?"

"Oh, dear, yes, I suppose so. I can't be sure it's the same chicken though."

"Wrong fuckin' answer. What are you doing, this is politics, you don't admit to things. What do you think the public's reaction will be if you told the truth, that you pay hookers to spank you with a rubber chicken? If you want to get out of this you have to lie. Lie, lie, lie."

Alex was had turned red with fear by this point. "I don't think I could lie," he mumbled to himself.

"Listen, I can phone the Mirror, tell them you admit to the prostitute thing, but deny the chicken, tell them that if they print the chicken you'll sue them so hard they'll be as dead as Robert Maxwell's bloaty floaty corpse. Then I'll get all the other papers, the ones people read, to run a piece with your side of the story, the stresses of office, how it was just a one off mistake, have a nice smiley photo of your wife forgiving you, then it's over. Minister survives, tomorrow’s papers find another schmuck to torment, a new perversion to pour over.

"However, if you can't deny the chicken, we're fucked. Do you realise how good this story is, a Lib Dem Minister of state with a rubber chicken fetish. It's bad enough that you're a Lib Dem, it's bad enough you wear glasses. Christ, the public don't want to think about you having sex, but kinky sex. A speccy Lib-Dem twat being spanked with a rubber chicken. That's the news sorted for the next year, that's the government fucked up the metaphorical arse with a metaphorical chicken."

"There wasn't any penetration with the chicken, just spanking."

"Oh, that's great, then there's hardly a story at all. Just spanking, no penetration. I know, let's celebrate, let's get Nick Clegg to launch a National Chicken-Free Anus Day. Oh joy.

"Listen, hen-wank, you need to get your story straight. Yes you met a prostitute, but it was just the one time, it won't happen again, no there was no chicken involved, just normal, masculine sex. Can you say that?"

"I don't like to lie, Martin. I didn't get into politics to distort the truth."

"No, clearly, you entered to politics to get yourself whacked off with synthetic poultry." Christ, he was getting me worked up was this one, couldn’t he just take his medicine like one of ours.

"You think I care about you? No, I don't, I don't give a shit about you, your old school tie or your twatty designer glasses. But I do care about this government, so I need you to do this, just tell a little one-off white lie for the cameras, then repeat the lie in forty or fifty exclusive interviews. Can you do that?"

"Okay," he nodded, a shamed concession, 100% cave-in to my every demand. It was like the coalition negotiations all over again.

I gave him his speech to learn and left him, perched high on his ministerial chair but crumpled with shame, tears forming behind his designer specs.

Right, that's one little twat's job saved. Now to sort out the problem of the Foreign Secretary and the rent boy.