Tony Blair the Wilderness Years 22

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 fights off his attacker … he must destroy the mountain of concrete and open the lab door … but the man won’t lie down … and look what happens to Tony’s adversaries …

The man followed me, sweeping, destroying my tracks, and staring all the time in a rather impertinent way. I stopped at the mountain of concrete in front of the lab door, and confronted him with my hand raised in the universal signal of peace commonly used by grown men. I tried to calm him in his own lingo.

“Hey, whatsa your problemo, gringo?”

But the man leaned on the broom and didn’t answer. I had no time for bad losers. I had a job of work to do. I needed to enter the lab, and so did my flock.

I grabbed the pick in both hands and circled the mountain of concrete to locate a weak spot, forcing Paterson back. I raised the pick bringing the sharp point down on the peak. A shard hit me. I put on protective goggles, and felt my eyeballs bulge under the strap. They steamed up, and the pick that had been next to me disappeared in the fog. I groped around for the pick, and someone laughed. Someone thought it was funny that I was groping around. I hated people laughing at me. It made my lip quiver and my feet stamp. It made me angry, and no one would want to make me angry. The last person to make me angry was called Saddam. Saddam called me Gromit, a cartoon dog, and then I stormed his palace, took down his photos, and put mine up. And now Saddam is no more. Executed. Ha! So long, Saddo. That showed him. And you too. You will all listen to ME because I am universal. I am big and clever.

I pulled the goggles off looking as mean as I could, and boy could I look mean.

“Hey! You laughing at me, punk?”

There were only three people who could have been laughing at me: Paterson, the madman with the broom, and the man on the mixer. But they were all looking the other way. I stuck a finger up at them.

“Fix you!”

That told them, in no uncertain terms, using the colourful language of the street so fashionable these days. I had to say, sweary stuff made me feel bigger and cleverer than ever. Putting the goggles on, I raised the pick high over my head, and brought it down hard on the concrete mountain. More shards flew past. There was increased laughter, and when I inspected the mountain, I saw I was making no impression whatsoever.

I lifted the pick again, taking it right back over my head, but it wouldn’t move. It was stuck. I turned round. The man off the mixer, coated from head-to-toe in cement, was holding the pick with one hand. The man was tall, and covered in flaking cement dust so he looked like a giant ghost. His eyes were red, and his lips were blue. He was a shocking example of the poor state of Britain’s workforce. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. There are plenty of foreigner chappies lined up to replace them for nothing.

The man prodded my chest with his finger.

“I’m over there on the mixer, and I’m seeing you chipping the concrete like a tiny, chirruping bird, and it’s making me weep. You’re not making any forward progress my friend.”

“You know, progress is in everybody’s interest. Progress is how we all shape our lives, our future’s, our children’s futures, our children’s, children’s, children’s futures.”

The man spun the pick on his finger, jammed the flat end under the concrete, and levered with one hand. The mountain toppled onto the creaking wheelbarrow. The man inspected the tip, and shook his head.

“You wasted your time chipping from the top. Always work from the base unless you want to take forever. Get yourself over to the dump. Jim Baird’s the name. Get rid of that mountain, and be quick about it.”

“And my name’s Bono Blair. I am here to take you away from all this alienating hard work, to show you that desk jobs can bring you inner calm and good manners. Arise boy, arise, and hug me like a bro’. I am your guide, your fuhrer, and you will follow me.”

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.


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