The Minister for Education relaxed in a hot bath and thought about his next move. He knew he had the support of at least three of his colleagues but the Defence Minister could prove a problem; without his help he stood little chance of fulfilling his dream of ascending to the giddy heights of First Minister to the Parliament of Albion. As it was his rise through the ranks of the political elite had been little short of meteoric. Only five years ago he had been a mere cog in the machine, a minor functionary working at party HQ. Now, however, thanks in part to the contents of some of the more private correspondence he unearthed during a stint in the post room, here he was contemplating the improbable; First Minister by the age of forty. Wouldn’t his father have been surprised? It was such a pity the miserable old sod hadn’t survived long enough to see the fruit of his loins achieve something he couldn’t even have dreamed of. But then, if his father had lived long enough, the Minister mused, he wouldn’t have the house and the estate to keep him in such luxury. Such a pity the old man hadn’t seen the approaching car until too late; then again perhaps it was better that way. At least he never had a chance to recognise the driver. He lay back in the steaming bath and played with his yellow plastic duck for a bit. After some reflection he pressed the little buzzer by the side of the bath and waited. Moments later his consiglieri knocked on the door in response.
“Ah, Babbage, fetch me the file on the Minister for Defence please.”
“Yes Sir.”
“And Babbage?
“Yes Sir?”
“Be quick about it there’s a good boy.” The Minister settled back in his tub and put his mind to stage two of his Grand Plan.
Even though the First Minister was, technically, out of the way, he knew he could not forget about him. Too many potential world leaders had been finished off by the death throes of a beaten enemy. After all, it was exactly what he would do in the First Minister’s position; find any way possible to bring down the person who had defeated him. So, first think about how he would achieve that very thing.
Similar thoughts were running through the mind of Sir Simon Fitzsimon who was still, nominally at least, First Minister to the Parliament of the New Republic of Albion. On the desk in front of him were three dossiers containing all known information on the Ministers for Health, Housing and The Arts; all minor posts he accepted but together they could be a force to be reckoned with. He reached into his briefcase and took out the dossier on the Minister for Education. There was nothing there to explain his rise to power. He was not particularly clever or charismatic. After an undistinguished education at a second rank public school where he learnt all that was necessary to survive as one of the chosen few in the New Republic: patronising those less fortunate, cheating in exams, high-grade bullying and feathering his own nest; he had studied at St. Cecil’s, Cambridge achieving Blues in both cricket and tiddlywinks – indeed his finest sporting moment had been defeating the Oxford champion during a Varsity tiddlywinks competition; he squopped all his opponents winks in the third round with a very neat Bristol – of course he cheated, his squidger was non-standard being 6mm at its edge – and he was inducted into the hallowed Hawks Club on the strength of that victory and his receipt the Silver Wink in his second year. He had studied sufficiently to avoid the ignominy of being sent down unlike the majority of his sporting peers and passed out with a “Gentleman’s Degree” in law. The drinking binge following this had since gone down in Cantab mythology as the only degree ceremony after which all successful candidates were arrested over the same weekend. Into the Bar, his father’s Chambers of course, and a short career in Commercial Law ensured he had sufficient funding to enter Politics and live the lifestyle expected by one of his social standing. He was vicious, cunning and ruthless of course but that was the minimum requirement for a politician; his father had been one of the “Old School” and Sir Simon had rather admired his general bigotry and lack of subtlety. Pity about his untimely demise. He studied the dossier some more. There had to something he had missed, something that would suggest why someone who had shown reasonable promise perhaps leading to a minor Cabinet post, an honourable mention in the Honours List (some traditions were just too important to let go) and a glorious retirement could get into a position to run for First Secretary. There was something missing from the equation and it was up to him, Sir Simon Fitzsimon to find out what it was. Then he would make one final, futile gesture and tear the jumped up little shit limb from limb.
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