Another inside story

Dave did his best not to look silly. He had forgotten to bring his earphones. Meanwhile, the others tried not to giggle while Barack told the story about the corgi and the Moldovan Ambassador.

Dave was a little concerned. He felt sure that sure that Barack was whispering about "British", "oil", "water" and wondered whether he could outsprint Harper and Merkel.

Barack's little joke had worked better than he could have hoped; he had waved goodbye to Frau Merkel, while getting the others to give her the forbidden salute.

George's new job - Part 15

George was not very happy.

He had been sitting at his desk for 23 and a half minutes, and even though he had told Kylie that he should not be disturbed, he hoped that the telephone would ring, or that Kylie would bring him some bourbon biscuits and one of those exotic coffee thingies that came out of the machine that he could never operate without his tie getting caught up or spilling cinnamon powder down his trousers.

George sighed.

He added a fourth underline to the word “Budget” that was on his notepad.

This reminded George of his days at school when he had sat at the back of Madame Thierry-Henry’s class and got very depressed while all the other boys were writing and he couldn’t even remember whether his vacances were male or female.

It just didn’t seem fair.

He knew that whatever he wrote in his budget would not be popular.

He knew that whatever he wrote in his budget would be crossed out by Dave and replaced by something that his new friend Dan wrote.

He knew that Sir Nicholas had told him what to write, and wished that he had been paying attention, instead of counting the pigeons on the pavement opposite Sir Nicholas’s office. It wasn’t George’s fault that Sir Nicholas was so boring, after all.

Even when George thought that he was being very witty someone or other told him that he was wrong. John Bercow, who George seemed to remember had once been on his side, had had the temerity to tell him off. George had thought that saying “And the same to you with knobs on!” was a pretty good riposte to that oik Alistair Darling. Who did Bercow think he was, anyway? George was Chancellor, and Bercow didn’t even get a vote any more.

Eventually George wrote:
Sell the Treasury.
Send Dan out to get a paper round. Morning and evening.
Put a tax on bingo winnings, fish and chips and Coronation Street.
Sell the BBC to Mr Murdoch.
Make John Bercow clean the toilets in parliament, and sack all of the cleaners.
Will this do?

Who am I?

I was in receipt of an email today from someone who shares my name, and had changed their email address. However, they appear to have given all of their contacts my email address.

I have had several interesting (from my point of view) exchanges today.

(I should clarify that when I say they share my name, I mean that they have the same name as me. We do not actually take it in turns to own the name. That would be silly.)

This evening I received a message from dear old Carolyn, thus:

Hi,
Just wanted to confirm your plans for the 4th.
Still coming to see Jerry on the Fri. before 4th and then coming to beach house?
Do you know the way? We have new 73/74 hwy open now. Let me know what your plans are. What time to expect you.

Love you and looking forward to seeing all of you.

I replied:

Hi!

Who are you?

My plans for the 4th what?

For the 4th anniversary of Margaret Thatcher's death my plans are to dance on her grave, possibly a tap dance, but that all depends on the weather and how much longer she can hold on for.

For the 4th course of dinner tomorrow, I will probably have some of the date slice that my wife made at the weekend.

For the 4th round of the T20 cricket competition, I rather fancy Durham to beat Sussex.

You really should learn to be more specific.

I haven't seen Jerry for ages. She started to campaign on behalf of those with erectile dysfunction, and I took that as a personal slight. Whatever problems she had with Jagger should not reflect on the rest of us.

I would be happy to come to the beach house, provided that you can assure me there will be no sand, due to my allergy.

My plans are to live a happy, fulfilled and utilitarian life, and to persecute those people who are careless with the spelling of email addresses.

See all of me? I am overweight, but not obese. Or are you suggesting something more intimate? If you do manage to see all of me, I shall probably be blushing all over, you saucy young thing.

love and peace

Modern Times

Liz preferred to celebrate her official birthday with a low-key ride through the locality.

Once again, Philip managed to struggle free from his gag, and was soon regaling passers by with his views on immigration, capital punishment and shirt-lifters

Bill tried very hard to screen the more graphic images of the day.

Once again, Charles only came seventh in the "Spot the odd one out" competition.

The family gathered to witness the "shoot a pauper out of a cannon" event.

"Fuck me, she's made a run for it again!"

Some could hardly contain their excitement.

Mike tried to scare Liz by dressing up as her granddad and calling her a silly bugger.

Colonel Siddons was expecting the George Cross, but decided not to make a fuss when he got a copy of "Corgi breeding for beginners" instead.

This year it fell to a Mrs Hampton from Yeovil to perform the "goose the monarch" ceremony.

Liz never tired of hearing the "six foot cock" joke.

Mr Faversham had always realised that exclaiming "Hey, George, what's this?" had been a major error.

"They'll never spot us amongst this lot".

Liz was looking forward to the article posted by her loyal subject, Mr Scurra, on his internet diary, which would form the basis of the definitive historical archive.

Evil infectious moronic megadeath

I am aware that my current keen interest in matters political might be a tad wearisome to some of my readers (aMToNW), so I thought I would focus upon matters religious and philosophical, and in so doing, piss off the rest.

On this week’s News Quiz on the electric radio, the subject of Michael Gove came up, and there was some banter about whether this was an argument against intelligent design, to which that nice Jeremy Hardy pointed out that it didn’t really support the argument for evolution much either.

Here is a picture of Michael Gove.

He is the minister for Education. I am assured that this appointment was made with no ironic intention.

It is cruel, childish and anti-libertarian to judge people on their appearance. Please do not do this. Listen to him speak, or read his works (the first government papers to be written in crayon) before you decide that he is a prize plonker of the first order.

Now, what say you, you promoters of the notion that the Creator has made man in his own image; that we are the result of painstaking research and development in the kingdom of heaven? That God, having created Michael Gove, gave himself a pat on the back (He can do this, because he is God) and took a day off. Did the Almighty, when showing his friends what he had made, pause for a long period when he came to the Gove Room, and stand back with a particularly smug smile?

Or, you heathen followers of Dawkins, is this what natural selection has given us? Is this the result of 13 or more billion years of adapting to the environment?

I think you can see that there is a third way. Let’s call it Govism. The first tenet of this new and proud religion/cult/philosophy is that the God who created all was not driven by concerns of intelligence, but rather by the intention of having a bloody good laugh, with a touch of vindictiveness to give it some edge.

The snail's on the thorn

I am obliged to Mr Rufus Hound, (not his real name), an amusing chap of whom some of you may have heard (not Dave, obviously).

On Twitter, Mr Hound mentioned a rather large cheesecake that had been delivered by room service to him at his hotel. He was then challenged to eat it.

Here is the result.

I hope you can all see this, and don't need to log in to twitter to see it. (Dunno what I can do about it if you can't).

I done a lol. So much better than going to bed with visions of the prime minister being beheaded in parliament square.

You make me feel so young

Thank you for indulging me these last two weeks, while I told you all about George. I think that it is perhaps time to give him a rest, as he has some jolly important decisions to be made for him, and could do with a nap.

However, I find myself still focussing on politics and have found a new interest in said bed of dung. Hardly a day passes when I am not to be found COLing (cussing out loud) at one form of electric medium or another. Only yesterday you may have observed me, had you been in the vicinity of the A325 at Buck’s Horn Oak, using all sorts of ungentlemanly language at dear old Liz during her little speech. I know that these displays, particularly in public and in Jane Austen Country, are unseemly and serve no purpose other than to stabilise my blood pressure, but it is nice to have a reason to get up in the morning.

I calmed down, and even while watching slimy Dave on the electric television, I thought he did quite well, considering*, I remained tuned in despite drifting in and out of consciousness during old Kaufmann’s ramblings, but finally succumbed to the desire to stave off the grim reaper when Beith tossed in his two penn’orth.

Then I got quite cross again with Boris and the Brian Haw story. For the benefit of those of you of a foreign disposition, I shall briefly tell you something of Brian Haw.

Brian Haw is a loony. He is the sort of fellow most of you would cross the street to avoid. However, for the last eight years or more he has undertaken a protest against the UK’s involvement in war(s) in Iraq and Afghanistan. His protest has been conducted close to parliament. Latterly he has been joined by several more pacificists, hippies some or all of whom may also be loonies, who have formed a small encampment in Parliament Square. Like most of you, I would probably not want Brian and his mates camping in my garden, however sympathetic I may be to his views (although I have allowed Tom to stay at my house on more than one occasion. Call me sentimental). Boris has taken the view that the Square was being damaged.

What is distasteful about this as much as anything is the timing. While his new slimy friend was across the road telling the nation about a new era of politics, in which freedom and fairness was to be at the forefront, Boris instructed Inspector Knacker and his men to clear a demonstration for peace and freedom in a less than sensitive manner.

This morning, (Wednesday 26th) without a trace of irony, we had that prize rectum Gove telling us that in order to eliminate bureaucracy schools could apply to become academies, but in order to do that needed to produce a “business plan”.

Congratulations, Gove, you tit. I thought I had long ago given up all hope of education in this country exciting my passions, geared as it is to produce 4 trillion unemployable business studies and marketing graduates each year. But no, here I am feeling the urge to shout “fuck off” every time I see your hideously deformed visage or listen to words flow through your just-begging-to-be-throttled neck. A school is not a fucking business, you twat. Fuck off.

* considering that he is an arsebrained, mendacious, slimy pig turd.

George's new job - Part 14

It had been one of George’s favourite birthdays, ever. Dave had given him a new house, called Dorneywood, (not Dorkywood, as PC Collins, who followed George everywhere, had called it). George had been driven there in the shiny new car that Dave had given him. George knew that he must be doing very well in his new job for Dave to give him so many presents.

For tea, Frances had baked a cake for George. It was a sponge cake, with THREE layers. There had been raspberry jam in between the bottom layer and the middle layer, and blueberry jam between the middle layer and the top layer. George had been quite giddy trying to decide which bit was his favourite.

Last year, at his birthday, Frances had arranged some entertainment for George. His friend Theresa had dressed up as Sophie Tucker, and when she sang ‘Man I Love’, George had been so pleased that he knocked over his dandelion and burdock. Frances had already told him that Theresa was too busy this year, because she was now the home secretary. George seemed to have lots of secretaries at home, but didn’t remember seeing Theresa. Perhaps she had worn a wig to look like Ms Tucker.

George was just having his second helping of Viennetta ice cream, when he thought that the entertainment had arrived. His new friend Vince came into the room, looking very cross and started shouting. He partly spoke in Polish, which George didn’t understand, and partly in English, which George didn’t understand. George was clapping his hands and laughing, and breathlessly said to Frances, “He’s very funny isn’t he? But I’m not sure who he’s meant to be!”

“I’ll tell you who I’m fucking meant to be,” said Vince, “you great gormless, public school, bottom feeding twat! Your worst fucking nightmare, that’s who I’m meant to fucking be!”

By this time George was laughing so much he thought that he might be sick!

“First of all they put a useless fucking wassock like you in charge of the fucking economy”, continued Vince, becoming even redder, “then I have to report to you, even though you don’t know your fucking six times table,” (this bit wasn’t true, noted George), “then I find out that my department does fuck all, and then, to put the icing on the shit, you fucking cut my fucking budget more than that of any other fucking department!”

George still, couldn’t recognise who Vince was impersonating. He thought that it might be one of these ‘alternative’ comedians, who George didn’t much care for, on account of them being nasty to Mrs Thatcher.

“Well!” said Vince, who was clearly just getting into the swing of things, “I’m going to make sure that everyone knows what a double-dealing, mendacious, fucking stupid sack of shit you are. I know, for a fucking fact, that you don’t have a fucking clue what’s in your fucking budget, and you are the most incompetent fucking boob in a fucking Tory front fucking bench of prize ball sacks! And no, I don’t want any fucking ‘scrummy cake’, and you can stick your trifle up your fucking arse!”

With that, Vince turned round and stomped out.

“Priceless!” shouted George, tears streaming down his face, “Frances, remind me to thank Dr Cable in person at tomorrow’s meeting, please.”

George telephoned and asked Mr Sutcliffe, the butler, to tip Vince a fiver on the way out if he hadn’t already left. George got his favourite pen from his pocket, and wrote “eight times six is seventy six” on his napkin.

George's new job - Part 13

George had had a very exciting week. Dave had arranged for him to go to Brussels, where George had shouted at a lot of foreign people, and told them that he was better than they were, and he wasn’t going to give money to Greece.

“They’ll be wanting the Elgin Marbles next!” he said, and thought that was very funny.

He told them all off for wanting to spend more money this year, but let them do something or other about hedge funds, which was OK with George, who didn’t have a hedge anyway.

On the way back on the train, George asked Kylie to go and see whether the driver would mind if George sat next to him for a time, and perhaps could have a go with the steering wheel. She came back with a jam (strawberry) doughnut and a puzzle book, and he soon forgot about her mistake.

A couple of days later George had gone back to Brussels, and had been a lot tougher. He had insisted on blackcurrant jam in his doughnut. Dave was going to ask William to go with George this time. George wasn’t sure why, so he went ‘online’ and changed William’s booking to a trip to Afghanistan. George didn’t see why he should have to share his doughnuts. Anyway, William came from Yorkshire and would probably prefer the tripe and onions that they served on the aeroplane.

George had also given an important speech at the CBI, and told them how much he supported their efforts to provide affordable furniture for poor people.

George met some very clever people who were able to do foreign accents frightfully well.

"Go on - do that Sarkozy chap!", demanded George.

George's new job - Part 12

George was very pleased when the telephone rang, and it was his friend Dave who asked if George could call round in ten minutes. It actually took 15 minutes to get there, because George could never remember which door led from his house to Dave’s and when he went out of the front door could never remember whether to turn left or right. When PC Collins, who followed George everywhere, caught up with him on the Victoria Embankment, they had had to jog back.

George was pleased that Dave wanted to see him, and hoped that Dave had arranged a trip for him. He knew that Dave had already been to Scotland BY PLANE and was going to Wales, and that William had already been to Washington. George was very jealous of William. George couldn’t see the point of sending William. George couldn’t understand why William got to go to Disneyworld – he was too short for all of the rides.

“George, you silly ass,” said Dave, jovially, “Settling in all right?”

“Oh yes”, said George, “although Frances hasn’t unpacked my gameboy yet”.

“George, do you remember that meeting we had a few months ago, about the OBR?”

“Yes, Dave, of course! The Oxford Bullingdon Reunion. Absolutely fantastic! I had two helpings of jam roly-poly!”

“No, no, you twerp, the ‘Office for Budget Responsibility’. You remember. We explained to you that when we won the election you would be very busy, so we would privatise part of your job, and leave you more time to do a bit of chancelloring?”

“Yes, I remember now, of course. We had muffins and blackberry jam.”

Dave introduced George to Sir Alan Budd who he seemed to have met before somewhere, but George wasn’t really concentrating. He kept trying to see Sir Alan’s shoes. He remembered that there had been an athlete called Budd who ran in bare feet, and wondered whether it was a family trait.

“So, George, we already have Dr Cable and Mr Laws to blame if you get your sums wrong, and Sir Alan here will carry the can if the forecasts are wrong. He has already issued a disclaimer – go on, Al, tell him”.

Sir Alan cleared his throat and said, very importantly, “We are not claiming that we shall get the fiscal forecasts right; it is easy to demonstrate that that is impossible.”

Dave obviously thought that this was very amusing, so George laughed too. “At this rate” said Dave, still chuckling, “we’ll be able to abolish the Treasury by the end of summer, convert the building to flats, and the rent on those and the savings on salaries and pensions should pay off the national debt in about six weeks. Don’t tell Sir Nicholas about this, will you George?”

But George hadn’t been paying attention. He had noticed that Sir Alan was wearing some very cheap looking brothel creepers, and was very disappointed.

George wasn't sure whether his new friend Dave was copying him out of admiration, or trying to make George look silly.

George's new job - Part 11

George was more than a little perplexed. He had suggested to Sir Nicholas M. that he could solve the government borrowing crisis by getting an overdraft from the Natwest. While this had seemed like a good idea at the time to keep old Macpherson quiet, now that George had had time to think about it, he was very troubled. In short, he did not like banks.

The first time he had been in a bank was with his father. George was very young and bored, and didn’t like the look of Mr Kermody, who was the manager at Coutts. Kermody had asked, in a very creepy way, whether George “wanted to show him his portfolio.” George had had incidents like that with the big boys at Eton, and hadn’t enjoyed them at all.

When George had become a grown up he still didn’t like banks, and suspected that banks didn’t like George either. George had lots of good ideas about how he could improve things, but the bank managers always seemed to be in meetings, and when they replied to his letters only said that they found George’s ideas “interesting”.

He asked Frances whether, if she wasn’t doing anything else, she would mind going to the Nat West and asking Mr Witherspoon whether they could have an overdraft for, say, 910 billion pounds. Frances started to speak Polish again, but then smiled in her lovely way, and said that she was busy that morning, as she had to alphabetise the wine cellar.

After a great deal of head scratching, George decided that action was needed. He telephoned the Chelsea branch of Lloyds and arranged an appointment. He said his name was “Gideon Usborne”. He didn’t want to give his own name in case they started sending him letters and suchlike.

(Usborne was like his own name, but with one letter different. Gideon was what he had been called at school. He didn’t like the name, because people kept thanking him for the bible, even though George was sure he had never given anyone a bible. So George had changed his name to “George” and no one ever mentioned bibles again. Result! As the young people said these days.)

The meeting had not gone well. Mr Jackson-Pollock, the manager of Lloyds, Chelsea, had begun by saying “Thanks for the bible”, and laughed like a drain when George told him that the wanted to borrow 910 billion pounds at 0.75%. In the end George had come home with a new current account, an accident insurance policy and a shiny pen, which, although it was nice, was not as nice as the pen that Kylie had bought for him from WHSmiths.

George liked his new shiny desk.

When no one else was in the room, he could bend over it, and see all the way up his nose.

George's new job - Part 10

George was very cross this morning. He hadn’t finished dunking his soldiers, let alone decided whether to have plum jam (from Waitrose, wink, wink) or marmalade on his toast, when Kylie came in and told him that Sir Nicholas Macpherson was on the telephone.

“Dash it all, Nick,” said George, “Can’t a chap have breakers these days?”

“It is 10:30, Chancellor, with all due respect”, said Sir Nicholas.

“Stop showing off! I was working on my diary with Kylie well before 9 this morning”.

“Well, I’ve been at my desk since 6:15”, said Macpherson.

George thought that that explained why Sir Nicholas was being so short tempered. George knew that the secret to a happy disposition was a good night’s sleep and lashings of kedgeree for breakfast.

“I was in my office at 4 this morning, so there” said George. He didn’t add that he had only been looking for the biscuit tin. It was the second time that he had woken up hungry in the night since taking this new job. Being important wasn’t as easy as people thought.

“We really ought to be talking more about the new budget,” said Sir Nicholas.

“Can’t it wait until Friday?” asked George. “I’m going down to Rymans on Thursday afternoon with Kylie and PC Collins, to pick up some nice notebooks to write things in, and I might even buy a new calculator, so I will be fully prepared by Friday”.

“But Chancellor, we are in the worst economic situation ever, the national debt is mounting, and it needs urgent attention”

“Oh pooh!” said George, “How much is the national debt anyway?”

“All told, it is in excess of 900 billion pounds, Chancellor”.

“Lumme!” said George, he didn’t want to appear silly in front of Sir Nicholas, so wrote down the question ‘How many billions in a hundred?’ to ask someone later. “I’ll get Frances to pop along to Natwest and see if we can’t arrange an overdraft, and let you know.”

“Most risible, Chancellor”, said Sir Nicholas, and rang off.

George telephoned Sir Nicholas back straight away, and tried an accent he had been practising. “This is Jeffrey Osborne from the Financial Times”, he said, trying not to giggle, “I wondered if you could settle a little wager we’ve been having here in Fleet Street. How many billions are there in a hundred?”

“Seven, Chancellor,” said Sir Nicholas and put the phone down again.

George was very excited, and wondered which of his friends would be the first to say "George Osborne, this is your life."

He hoped that it would be Nick, because William's accent made George giggle.

George's new job - Part 9

George had had a very good day. He had been to an interview with some chaps from the Financial Times. Not only had he remembered the advice that his new friend David Laws had given him, but had remembered to say it out loud:

“One of the things you learn as a new chancellor of the exchequer with the Budget less than 50 days away is that you don’t talk about things.”

He was very pleased with that. He had also told them how much he liked the Liberals and agreed with them on everything, and wouldn’t even mind living next door to one! He had, of course, had his fingers crossed the whole time, and they hadn’t even noticed. On the whole they seemed very silly people to George, because they didn’t know that he lived next door to David Cameron who certainly wasn’t a Liberal, and on the other side were just some offices or something; George wasn’t sure what was there, and made a note to knock on the door and introduce himself – hoping that there were no common people living there.

When he got back to his new office, David Laws was there and politely asked how the interview had gone. George told David what he had said about not talking about things, and David was very pleased. But when George told him that he had talked about spending cuts, David wasn’t very pleased.

“It’s all perfectly in order, old chap.”, said George. “I told them that I was not afraid to face the challenges and would be leading by example. I told them that I had asked Frances not to buy any more of Fortnum and Masons organic plum jam, and that we could jolly well make do with the Waitrose own brand. (I didn’t tell them that I had stashed 12 jars of the F&M jam in the cupboard under the stairs!). They didn’t know what to say to that!”

David Laws said “Jesus” and something in Polish, and left, which George thought was a bit rude, but put it down to David Laws being new, and not used to statesmanship and ruthless decision making.

George was surprised how many people spoke Polish to him. He asked his secretary, Kylie, to find out if there were any classes in Polish in the Westminster area.

“Monday nights would be best, because Frances likes to watch Panorama, and she won’t notice if I’m in a bit late,” he said.

“Don’t you watch Panorama, Chancellor?” asked Kylie.

“Oh no”, said George, “it’s all about politics and the economy, and I don’t like to take my work home.” He fell about laughing at this. It was a really good joke, because now he worked at home, you see. It was the best joke he had made since the cabinet meeting a couple of days ago when he had said “Ee by gum” every time William said anything.

George was so pleased with his new joke that he telephoned his friend Iain who was in charge of Work and Pensions, and told him about it.

Iain said something in Polish.

George was very confused about having too many friends called 'Dave'.

They all looked like a blur to him.

He was beginning to think it was a plot to make him look silly.

George's new job - Part 8

George was sitting in his office drinking a cup of strong Assam that Kylie had made specially for him, trying to remember his password for the computer, in case he ever needed it, when his new friend Vince arrived.

Vince had a young man with him. The young man’s name was Dave. George found this very confusing.

"How will I know which one is calling?", he asked Vince.

“Well, Chancellor, you are David Laws’ boss, and he will probably begin by saying ‘Hello, Chancellor’ whereas David Cameron is your boss, and will probably begin by saying ‘Hello, arsehole’”.

George wasn’t entirely sure that Vince was not teasing him, but he had never seen Vince so much as smile, so he let it go.

“Before we start talking about all this money nonsense,” George said to his new friend Vince, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. There was another chap, I’m sure his name was Vince as well, and he once said that I was ‘out of my depth’. You don’t know who he is do you?”.

“No idea, Chancellor”, said Vince, very positively.

“Well, if you find out, let me know, will you, I am going to go round to his house, IN MY NEW CAR that my friend Dave gave me, and tell him that I am Chancellor of the Bloody Exchequer.”

“I am sure that that will scare seven shades of shit out of him”, said Vince.

George didn’t like Vince being so crude, but overlooked it, as Vince hadn’t been to Eton, and was therefore probably lacking in vocabulary and good manners.

George wasn't particularly fond of his new friend, Dave, who seem a bit on the smug side, but at the same time did not want to let go of him, because if he did, he would have no-one to take him back to his office - he was pretty sure he could find it, but didn't want to take the risk.

George's new job - Part 7

George was very surprised to find out that he was in charge of a very big house called “The Treasury”.

It was only a couple of minutes walk from his house, but George liked using the shiny car that his friend Dave had given him.

“Does it have sirens?” he asked.

“No,” said PC Collins, who seemed to follow George everywhere, “Boris has said that the only sirens in London are to be used to fetch mad people to the asylum. You’ll probably be hearing them soon enough.”

George was quite fond of Boris, but thought that power had gone to his head.

George wondered if it would be a good idea to put a tax on Mayors.

When they got to the Treasury they were shown into a jolly big room and were told that Sir Nicholas would be with them soon.

George wondered whether this was the same Nick who had become a very good friend of George’s friend Dave.

George was a little bit jealous, until Dave explained that he was just stringing Nick along because he needed his support, but would “knife the little shit in the back at the first opportunity.” This made George feel better.

George looked in all of the cupboards, and was sad that he could find no treasure; he reasoned that it would probably be kept in a chest somewhere, and would ask someone about it. There was no point in being in charge if you didn’t get to see all of the secrets.

Sir Nicholas came in, and George was relieved to see that it wasn’t his friend Dave’s new “friend”, but was still uncomfortable because Sir Nicholas looked a bit like that fool Alistair Darling, who was the chap who used to have George’s job, and George didn’t like Alistair at all.

“What do you do round here, then?” asked George.

“I am the permanent secretary, Chancellor”, said Sir Nicholas.

“Well, we’ll see about that, old boy” said George, “I’ve got more secretaries than I can shake a Pritt stick at round the corner, and, call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always seen it as a woman’s job. I certainly don’t need another one, permanent or not!”

George felt quite silly when Sir Nicholas explained that he wasn’t that kind of secretary.

George didn’t know what else to say. Eventually he ‘remembered’ an important meeting back in Downing Street.

“We’ll probably meet again one day,” said George, “what with being neighbours and all. You do live here, don’t you?”

“Alas, no Chancellor,” explained Sir Nicholas.

“Well, I live upstairs from my office!”, boasted George, “My friend Dave arranged it for me – he lives next door you know – he said that if I lived anywhere else I would probably get lost on the way to work. He’s a proper joker is Dave. Oh! I know what I was going to ask, can I come round tomorrow and look at some of the treasure? About 11 o’clock, would that be all right? Don’t want to hurry breakfast. Frances says it gives me wind.”

“You have no idea how much I look forward to it, Chancellor”, said Sir Nicholas.

“That meeting went jolly well, Collins” said George to PC Collins in the car. With that he rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and made siren noises all the way back home.