Tony Blair the Wilderness Years 21

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 arrives for his first full day testing concrete … but his path into the lab is blocked … the foreman, Breeze McKong has left a mountain of concrete at the door … the man in the combat jacket looms … Tony gets his retaliation in first … the journey into the wilderness continues …

Sorensen’s and the lack of fish didn’t concern me because I was so on a mission, a mission that was temporarily halted by a mountain of concrete that had formed in front of the lab door since yesterday, stopping me opening it. I suspected foul play.

Paterson caught up with me. He wanted to know why I’d rushed off and left him in the car.

“Wait for me in future, sir, and please stay out of trouble, sir.”

“Hey! Look. You know there’s no trouble I can’t fix, bud.”

But Paterson looked at the mountain.

“So Breeze McKong left some concrete outside your door. How are you going to get in the lab, sir?”

I looked up at the mountain peak.

“You know, just at the moment, I guess I’m not going to get in the lab, yah. This is my first test as ex-PM. It’s not going to be easy, but with God as my witness, I will give it all I’ve got.”

“It could take days to move, sir.”

I tried to push the mountain. I wasn’t going to let a six-ton pile of rock-hard concrete stop my progress. That’s not what I’d been brought up the hard way to do. The man in the combat jacket was staring at me.

The sharp point of a pick was what I needed to chip away the concrete, and the storeroom was the place to get it.

Setting off towards the storeroom with Paterson following, I passed the man in the combat jacket, my Mr. Sheep. More men in blue helmets filling diesel tanks and lighting cigarettes appeared. You know, being pretty smart, I wondered if the colour of the helmet was significant because Breeze McKong wore a white helmet, and white was different than blue, and he was in charge of them. I loved hierarchies.

Oh so tedious Paterson wanted to know where I was going.

“I’m going in. Keep me covered. I may be some time.”

I surveyed the scene with my superhuman ability to assess the situation. The cement mixer was being cranked into smoky life. Tools were being clattered against the wooden breakwater to remove dry concrete. They could be used as weapons.

The men stopped work and stared. I nodded at them to show I came in peace, but then I checked I hadn’t grown another head because they all stared, and no one nodded back. Being the ex-PM was going to be a burden in itself. I had to ingratiate myself to these people as soon as possible to show them that I came from ordinary humble beginnings similar to their own, and I came to lead them to suburban safety. I meant them no harm unless they failed to vote for me, and then I was going to be a wildly vindictive bully, who’d take away their only means of survival.

I climbed in the storeroom and saw rows of tools hanging on the walls. There was a long steel bar with a sharp point at one end. It was heavy enough, but no good for chipping away a mountain of concrete. What I needed was something I could swing—something that would break up the concrete with its own weight. Something symbolic, mace-like, a totem, something I could wield with upright, moral conviction.

Paterson stood at the storeroom door, looking round anxiously.

“Hurry up, sir.”

“Stay cool, pardner.”

There was a metallic ringing. The man who’d locked me in the lab yesterday was tapping his toecaps against the steel ledge and he didn’t look like a natural follower. I touched the peak of my baseball cap.

“You know, that’s kind of annoying, yah! Stop it.”

But he was in a bit of a broodie moodie. He raised the broom, and bayonet-charged, lunging with the handle, and growling like a dog. I grabbed the heavy bar and felt the power surge inside me. I was tall. I was strong. I wasn’t the poodle any longer. I swung the bar, knocking the broom out of the man’s hands and took the man out as well. I collected a pick from amongst the shovels, weighed it, and touched the sharp point. I stepped over the man and grabbed Paterson, who was cowering in the corner as usual with his hands over his head like some kind of baby. I took his shaking hand.

“Let us go, boy, and leave the worm to feed.”

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.

Check out his Lulu Storefront, and his sensible blog.

Advertisements