Reg seems to have got himself into a bit of a state about the alleged meeting between Gordon and Thatcher, and out of kindness, and after careful consideration, I decided to break another confidence and let you really know what happened that afternoon.
I was sitting in the garden at No 10, waiting for Gordon to join me in one of our occasional games of Happy Families – I usually win because most afternoons he is too stoned to tell the difference between any of the families, and I suspect that there maybe some incidence of incest in his family background.
Earlier than I had expected, he came staggering out of the back door, trying to aim a kick at the cat, wearing a Jefferson Airplane “Volunteers” tee-shirt and a lime-green sou’wester, laughing uncontrollably, pausing only to try to beat the record for peeing up the outside wall (the plaque, at an improbable thirteen feet above the ground says “B. Disraeli, first lord of the treasury, 16th October 1876).
“I thought Maggie was coming round this afternoon”, I said. “Oh, she’s inside”, he retorted, rubbing his sides in a theatrical attempt to show mirth. “She’s with a constituent of mine who I invited round to discuss her council tax arrears. Maggie thinks she is talking to Hazel Blears, and the constituent thinks she is talking to some sort of ombudsman. They’re getting along fine, because neither of them has ever listened to anyone else in their life. I’ll go back in later, slip some gin into Thatch’s Earl Grey, nod and grin a bit, and then go out and meet the press looking all serious, she probably won’t find the catshit that I slipped into her handbag ‘til she gets back home”.
“It’s a good job I’m here, isn’t it?” I inquired “You need to let your hair down sometimes, and the rest of the country thinks you are dour and serious.”
“Fuck ‘em” he riposted, doing a double somersault down the path and landing less than three inches from the goldfish pond that Ted Heath had installed. “I spent more than a decade pretending to support old slimy britches, and now I'm the boss I intend to do whatever the fuck I want.”
He then proceeded to tell me some of the schemes he had lined up to become law over the next eighteen months. I was shocked. I cannot give you any details, not because of my fear of betraying trust, but because I suspect that you would not believe me.
12 comments:
HAHAHA
I believe that the plaque, safely nestled at an improbable thirteen feet above the ground, was specifically placed there to impress Britain’s tallest man, Hussain Bisad.
He had invited Bisad over on the pretense of sharing a pot of Earl Grey and discussing heightism in the Third World, more specifically Neasden, where Bisad lives in a semi.
When he admitted that he really only needed some painting done on the eaves, a brief scuffle ensued, and apparently it took several hours for the surgeons to safely remove Bisad's size 26 shoe from his arse.
what was the other confidence?
Vicus, you disappoint me.
Why, oh why, oh why didn't you ask Gord to get the Adult Twister down from the loft and then get the Thatchbitch to play? You could have got funky by tapping your feet to the sound of her hips, elbows and knees popping and then, when she at last became motionless, you could have beaten her to death with the tortoise Leo left behind because the landlord won't let them have it in daddy's new council flat.
The bastard, did he get the cat?
And was it this cat, who had heroicly donate the shit?
I'll have you know I take everything you write as gospel. I don't believe you've ever set a precedent on these pages for dishonesty.
Well, the gospels are telling a particular part of a story for a particular reason (see John 20:30-31) - they are not history or biography as we would understand them, because such concepts did not exist in the 1st century CE.
So, yes, I read everything Vicus says as gospel too.
Thank you all for your comments, in particular Dave for vanquishing the doubters. I would back up his claim with a further text: Ezekiel 23:20.
Thank you for that gratuitous reference to my anatomy.
Don't tell the girls.
The only historical fly in the ointment, however, is that in August 1876 Queen Victoria granted Disraeli the title Lord Beaconsfield, and so a plaque dated October of that year would not have shown him as mere B Disraeli.
So which bit do you not believe then Dave? A change of position from your comments above. I suppose you meant any manufacturer of dairy product.
My knowledge of the scriptures is weak so I will go and look it up. Miss Coveney didn't do this passage at Sunday School.
Ah, quite. I do believe I have chanced upon a few websites devoted to Ezekiel 23 over the years.
And in a book recommended to children, too.
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