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 has arrived at the construction site…he’s been told to test a concrete runway…is Tony man enough for his new role?…the dark comedy that is Tony Blair in the wilderness continues…
Paterson took me on a tour of duty. He pointed to a tall, white silo that stuck out of the ground like a rocket on a launch pad.
“That’s where the cement is stored. Forty foot of solid steel full of gold dust.”
A cement mixer was turning on a huge concrete base like the engine room of a galactic battlecruiser.
“And this is the centre of it all, sir. The power house. Big enough to build a house a minute, three hundred and sixty five days a year.”
I looked at the mixer and blinked. It was my lucky day.
“Splendid. With this machine, I could build millions of houses in the south-east of England, and move the entire population of Britain there with ease. No need to maintain the motorways, and the railways. Labour rates would fall because of that huge pool of people, and investment in Cool Britannia Plc. would rocket.”
I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. It was a dream come true, to have the opportunity to get so close to ordinary people, and real power. But the mixer blipped and puthered smoke. McKong and Paterson stepped back.
A man jumped back from the mixer, and ran towards me shouting and waving his arms. The mixer appeared to jam. The steel frame lifted on its base. The engine locked and went into overdrive. The drum freed itself and spun like a rebellious washing machine with workmen running away in all directions. A cannonball-sized lump of wet concrete flew out of the drum. McKong and Paterson stepped behind a tower of rusting steel bars. The torpedo smashed against the steel. I stepped behind the steel tower too. More clods of concrete hit the tower. The mixer shook, went a little faster and then righted itself, crashing back onto the concrete base. It was obviously in the late stages of a long, arduous life, and I knew there was plenty of room for improvement. I had my work cut out.
The man wiped his brow and climbed back onto the mixer.
“It’s happening twice a day now.”
He inspected a wavering dial on the side of the mixer, shaking his head. He dragged a giant shovel across a mountain of gravel. A truck arrived for the wet concrete that coiled as it spewed out of the mixer, the very life-blood of McCreedie’s vast empire. It was admirable, a devastating scene of energy and power channelled into doing good.
But the man slipped and soared into the air landing heavily. He was dragged into the mixer, and crushed to the size of a tin can. The mixer hiccuped. McKong sniffed. Paterson coughed.
“We have something to show you, sir.”
“Just look at that would you.”
Paterson gazed lovingly at the door of a temporary office—a larger, cleaner version of his own office.
Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years ISBN 1-4196-0573-9
This Blog Is
Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.
Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.