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’s boss Aristotle Paterson drives him to the construction site … a grey factory looms … Paterson describes some sharp local practices … Tony finds things are getting uncomfortable…the journey into the wilderness continues…
I stretched my cramped back and shoulders as best I could. The bed had been too small. I had to eject Paterson to make more room. A smell filled Paterson’s car, and it was like, so unpleasant. Paterson tapped the cheap air-freshener and acrid pine-scented chemical struggled against the warm smell. Would I ever escape his filthy habits?
He looked in the rear-view mirror, jabbed the gear stick and braked hard for the airport site. I saw gulls vying for space on the air vent of a squat, but somehow enormous, grey, corrugated old sort of factory type place that reminded me of the world before I got down to business. Feathers hit the vent, and steam boiled out. The car swooped like one of the gulls. Apparently, the gulls went in the air vent, and then came out wearing a metal suit.
“There’s no fish round here, sir. You never see fish going in, sir, but you see the cans coming out, and they’re full of seagull.”
Apparently, Sorensen Marine Processors were the biggest seagull canneries round here, and they were passing it off as fish. Admirable stuff.
“The smell’s bad outside, but it’s far worse inside. Think yourself lucky you work on a building site, Mr. Tony, sir.”
Feeling lucky was my occupation. Easing my sore back, I accidentally let a build up of gas escape. A bubble exploded and mingled with the air freshener and the other smells. Hey! Well if you can’t beat ‘em.
I saw a gull fly through the scalding steam, shying away as if it heard me. There was a queue at a bus stop—the night shift going home, wearing Sorensen’s white-gulled logo on their rustic smocks, looking confused in sunlight, like sleepwalkers woken mid-excursion. Those poor souls were the real workers, the sort of fringe people I identified with. I had to mingle with those fringes if I wanted to be the man of the people. Better hairstyles were the way forward, and an optimistic attitude. You had to see those guys. They had the body language of ghosts.
Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9
This Blog Is
Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.
Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.
Check out Ian Duncan Smith’s satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.