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 returns to his lab after seeing drums of dangerous chemicals at the dump … he’s confronted by the madman who charged at him with the broom … the Hotel Machiavellian tourist information suite comes back to haunt him … the journey into no man’s land continues…
Outside the lab, I steered the barrow left, but the man in the attractive combat jacket moved in front, stopping me from reaching the lab. The man in the combat jacket folded his arms. Mr. Sheep was playing hardball.
Jim Baird appeared at the corner of the lab.
“Meet the man from the Faroes.”
“Does daddy cool have a real name?”
“Does the pope?”
“Yes, in factotum, Mr. Einstein, he does.”
“What is it then?”
“Pope Sean John. Now why’s this guy stopping me from reaching the lab?”
Jim moved in front of the barrow as well. Paterson, struggling for breath, caught up with me.
“Now let’s all stay calm.”
Jim rubbed cement dust from his eyes.
“Why were you in the storeroom without permission, Blair?”
Paterson wrung his hands.
“I tried to stop him.”
“I needed a pick. What’s wrong with going in there for a pick?”
Apparently, no one messed where the man from the Faroes had swept.
“Oh huh! Big deal.”
“Why are you here anyway? An ex-prime minister. You could get a normal job, anywhere. You shouldn’t be here on a construction site. You’re posh.”
“No, no, I’m not posh, ya. I’m with you. I’m the wrong Tony. Someone made a big mistake.”
“The Civil Aviation Agency doesn’t make mistakes, you tart.”
“Hey, cool. Tart. Whatever. The Civil Aviation Agency doesn’t run me. I’m a free spirit. Go on, josh me some more. I like a bit of bonding, repartee, merry banter.”
“You’re Paterson’s spy, you cretin.”
Paterson said I wasn’t.
“Right on. But hey! Wait a darned minute. I’m no cretin. You know, I’m a trained lawyer. So eat my shirts.”
I decided to play tough and let them have it. I pulled the barrow back, and rammed it at them both. They stepped aside. The barrow battered the lab door open. It careered into the lab. It slid across the floor, out of control.
Freeman turned round. The barrow hit his knees. He staggered back. He was holding a piece of tartan-headed paper from the Hotel Machiavellian tourist information suite.
“What in the name of Colonel William O’McCreedie is corporate advice?”
“That’s where big people pay little people to tell them they’re nice over and over again.”
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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