Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.

…Tony is in McCreedie’s battered white truck with Breeze McKong, a foreman, Aristotle Paterson, a site manager, and his bear, Mr. Nixon…he’s on his way to his new post…full of optimism despite the two cranky men and the smoking truck…the continuing satirical story of Tony Blair in the wilderness…

These people had no idea what they were dealing with, that I, their messiah, was walking amongst them, giving them quality time. The truck veered onto the Ardrossan road. It swayed, and eventually I was lulled into a drowsy dream by the frictionless speed. I was back at my desk in number 10 saying gimme, gimme, over and over to my blow-up Margaret Thatcher which, of course, was on top. It was quite some hot dream.

But then the bubble burst, the truck shuddered to a standstill and I opened my eyes. I looked round. I was in the middle of a huge expanse of gravel, surrounded by tall silos, rusting mixers and gigantic trucks. It was so huge and noisy, it had to be a construction site. There had to be some mistake because I was never meant to arrive at a construction site, but then my mission was always going to take me to new and varied destinations, such as Basingstoke, Reading, Slough, cool New Labour heartlands.

“This way, sir.”

I followed Paterson and McKong out of the truck and into a cabin containing an old desk and a couple of grey plastic chairs with the legs splayed out.

“Sit down please, sir.”

“Grab yourself a seat, sir.”

I dropped my suitcase on the hollow-sounding floor, and sat on one of the grey plastic chairs that looked least likely to collapse under me. McKong shut the cabin door, and stood behind me leaning back on the door with his immense arms folded. Paterson sat down at the desk and pulled up his sleeves. A jet engine blasted very close nearby, and a tail-plane passed the window so it appeared to be growing out of the top of Paterson’s head. A drink would have been good, but I didn’t expect to be offered a drink from those poor people who hadn’t enjoyed human interaction for a very long time. At least they could rest assured that I was there to help them, to lead them to a better existence. Paterson reached across the desk.

“Could I see the letter please, sir? So I can see what Mr. Ferguson has in store for you.”

I felt my top pocket. Donald Ferguson’s letter was no longer there. It had to be somewhere. Opening my suitcase caused underpants, socks, T-shirts, and jeans to spread uncontrollably across the desk. Mr. Nixon rolled onto the floor, and landed on his head with a thump.

“Whoa there little fella.”

I picked up Mr. Nixon, brushed dirt off his head, and put him back in the suitcase. McKong and Paterson stared.

“The letter, sir?”

“Oh yes.”

I searched through the suitcase. Another tail-plane blasted past making the window catch rattle and jump.

“To be honest, you know, I haven’t a clue where the letter has gone.”

“Covering your tracks already, sir?”

“No, look—”

“Never mind, sir. I’ll be speaking to Mr. Ferguson shortly. I must apologise on behalf of Mr. Ferguson for his absence, and convey his best wishes to you on your first day, sir. Welcome to Scotland.”

“Mr. Ferguson promised there would be a very advantageous proposal when I arrived. I am the Tony Blair, ex-PM, and the deposed leader of the most progressive political movement this country has ever produced, not to be confused with the imposter, Tony Blair, who remains in power, a mere shell, hemmed in on all sides by scandal, incompetence, corruption, and masseurs. Is there any chance Mr. Ferguson will be here soon? I have to say, a construction site doesn’t look like the right location at all for a CEO.”

Paterson and McKong looked as though they’d swallowed pen tops.

“A CEO?”

“They didn’t say they were sending a CEO, sir. We were told you were a construction expert, sir.”

“No, I’m not. My field is politics, the member for Sedgefield. I offer leadership, clear vision, personal magnetism, and quite a few creative hairstyles.”

“Sedgefield?”

“Yes, and I am here to bring peace, to breathe new life, to invigorate, to ensure William McCreedie prospers and flourishes, to see great riches come into fruition for the next generation, and the next, to ensure the little ones have shoes on their feet and smiles on their cheeky, chirpy faces.”

“Sounds good. A member.”

“Sounds damned good. Welcome aboard, sir. A real member.”

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

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