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 breaks out of his miserable bed and breakfast accommodation… he needs to go walkabout… to meet the people of the tiny Scottish coastal village of Ardrossan… to convert them to his brand of politics… it’s reality time… Tony confronts his satirical wilderness…
Across a small, neat square, full of parked cars, the door of a bar crashed against a wall, and a man staggered onto the street. The man turned and charged the door, but it was slammed in his face. He hammered the frosted glass. I sensed his alienation.
“And the same to you, too.”
A woman opened the door.
“Up yours, Sandy Donaldson. You’re barred from the Blue Bell forever.”
The woman slammed the door. There was obviously some local difference of opinion I could pour troubled oil onto. Maybe I could get some leverage here, some triangulation. The man leaned forward, put his hands on his head and laughed. Stepping into the road, he pulled at his hair and kicked a waste bin, scattering the contents, and then he looked up at me.
“What are you looking at, curly?”
He started coming at me, but I assumed the tree-in-a-storm stance, the position of passive dominance, and I chanted.
I circled. The man stopped and realising my obvious superiority and mastery of all things violent, he backed away. I kept up the pressure.
That deep, primeval sound sent him scurrying. I followed him between parked cars.
I followed him along a narrow road, past pebble-dashed bungalows, past gardens with pot herons and Scots guardsman plaques with Keep Off written on them, all the time keeping up the cry of the bald eagle. After the last front garden, the man climbed a grassy ridge at the back of the bar.
I climbed the bank too and breathed in, looking down on a small strip of shingle that separated Ardrossan from the sea. The man had gone. I’d chased his yellow belly hide out of town. I beat my chest and made Tarzan impressions. Tony one, mean-minds nil.
“Aeeyayeeeaayeee, me Blair. Tony Blair.”
The beach was covered with seaweed, faded coloured ropes and every shape and size of plastic carton ever created. Curling lines of debris shunted towards me, and it wasn’t a romantic proposition. No surfing wave was likely to end its three thousand-mile journey at my feet, and there wasn’t a snow-capped mountain for me to soar above in sight, although it looked okay for a spot of jet-skiing. But basically, you know, the place was just a big shit hole. At least the air was fresh and clear as the Austrian peaks, and the taxi driver was wrong about Ardrossan. There was no expansion. There was no money to be made. There was nothing but a tiny square, and pale beach road bungalows, and me yodelling the song of the free.
The sea nudged the shingle, and mended my frayed nerves. The truck, Freeman, Mrs. Harris, had all been too much in the hectic day of an ex-PM, and hey! Even pioneers at the last frontier needed to rest.
Looking up into the cold sky, I saw clouds multiplying. The end of summer was coming, and the sun was slipping out of sight for good, a bit like my cush CEO job in fact. A breeze claimed the bay, and then a faint metallic noise started like a distant heavy chain running against steel.
That was the noise I liked most.
As soon as I listened to the noise, it stopped, and that made me curious, bringing out my natural hunter’s inquisitive streak. I set phasers to stun and proceeded with new caution into the rogue state.
Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years ISBN 1-4196-0573-9
Check out my satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.
This Blog Is
Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.
Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.