The Greatest Politician… in the Wooooorld
Speed has never killed anyone. Suddenly becoming stationary, that's what gets you.
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General Election 2005: Guildford
Liberal Democrat– Sue Doughty – 22,648
Conservative – Anne Milton – 22,295
Labour – Karen Landles – 4,954
Green– John Pletts – 811
UKIP– Martin Haslam – 745
Peace – John Morris – 166
Independent– Victoria Lavin – 112
Majority - 353
Turnout – 51,731
Liberal Democrat Hold
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6 May, 2005
4 Cowley Street, London
Charles Kennedy looked over the final results from the long night before. 63 seats, up 12. Still, he was disappointed with the results. Eventually they’d force a hung parliament and then, finally, reform could be on the table. Right now, though, they’d have to accept another few years of Labour majority. Christ he could use a drink… well another.
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25 April, 2009
1 Princes Street, Edinburgh
Jezza did not mind running on television, if it meant winning. He liked to win, even if it meant beating the car. It was a quick run through the station, out on Princes and the Victorian behemoth that is the Balmoral was right there. “Unlike James May, I will only run to television.” The camera team was close behind him.
But he had been shoveling coal all day, and the soot he ingested did not combine well with the life time of smoking and drinking. He certainly was not a fit man, but he could run if it meant winning.
He sprung up the steps and through the revolving door. Covered in soot he was dangerously underdress for the hotel, asking the front desk for directions for the lobby without shame. He made his way through to the finish line, used to getting looks from people. When he arrived at the bar, it looked empty, he’d had done it! Wait… “You have permission to say ‘cock.’” That shaggy-haired bastard! James May was at the bar, hiding behind a corner, looking smug as always. Well at least the car won. Clarkson slumped to the floor as his mate brought him a pint, too tired and defeated to reach the bar. “Jeremy, speak to me.” May gave him a hand and propped him up on a pillar.
Clarkson brought the beer to his lips. Refreshed he said, “I never want to see another steam train.” He took another sip, “Have you heard from Hammond?” He imagined that’d make a good segue for the show. Despite the producers, he called cut for himself and turned off his mic. May was still squatting by him and helped him up over to the bar. After the day of effort he felt exhausted and vulnerable. A few more sips of beer. “May, my chest hurts.”
Captain Slow looked over concerned but Clarkson shook his head, it wasn’t a heart attack. “Well what do you expect? You’re no spring chicken anymore,” May said, with his own pensive swallow of beer for effect.
“I only turned 49 two weeks ago,” Clarkson defended.
But May was ready with his jab, “And you smoke and drink and never exercise… you live like the Roman god of speed and power. How much longer do you think you’ll be able to keep it all up? We almost lost Richard… we’re not invincible.”
Jeremy had no pithy comeback for that.
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27 December, 2009
The Green, Kingham, Chipping Norton
The Leader of the Conservative Party was staring into the fire and nursing his Jura. The “Christmas truce” was on but he still could not shut his mind off. Even during his run through the mud this morning he was still thinking about a different Brown. There were few places David Cameron could go out these days and still have a moment of quiet, personal time but Emily and Miles were discrete and…
“Hello, David.”
Cameron looked up but the whole country knew that voice, “Ah, Jeremy. Merry Christmas.” Cameron sat up a bit. In his low wingback chair he felt caught off guard at the interloper’s full 6’5” height. Cameron considered Clarkson a friend, but a new one still. “Care to join me?” Cameron offered, gesturing at a chair solely out of British decency. Honestly he would prefer just getting sloshed alone.
“I don’t mean to intrude, so I brought a token of truce,” Clarkson said while offering a rather hefty dram to the sitting statesman.
Warmed by the fire, whisky and the offer, Cameron accepted. “Cheers,” and he finished off his whisky to accept what his friend brought. He cleansed his pallet with some water, then wafted and sipped the drink, “Bruichladdich Organic, very good!” A look of surprise washed over his face.
Clarkson looked sheepish, “Well I saw that bit in the Daily Mailand figured you could use a drink. Just because we’re trying to get away from the families doesn’t mean we don’t want company.”
“I’m trying to get away from everything,” Cameron conceded. Realizing he had put-off his fellow patron, Cameron recovered, “I watched the Bolivia special last night. That was an epic finish!”
With a grin, Clarkson teased, “Our original idea was to go south into Argentina and finish in Buenos Aires, blaring ‘Rule, Britannia!’” and took a swig of his lager for effect.
The MP chortled, “I’d like to see Brown try to apologize for that!”
With a comedic sigh, “Mind if I order some chips?” Clarkson asked. Cameron gave an agreeable shrug. The dusk turned into proper night as the two men chatted, snacked and drank. Eventually, Clarkson asked, “What would you be doing if you weren’t a politician?”
“I’d be a stockbroker like my father… and I would probably be miserable.” Cameron paused for a sip. “And you, what would you be doing if you weren’t a television loudmouth?”
“I’d be an MP,” Clarkson said, half-jokingly, with a bite of duck pate.
“Bollocks,” Cameron said almost choking on his drink.
“I’m serious!” Clarkson defended, “Who’s going to remember a television host? A few years older and you’ll start having these thoughts too. What’ve I got to show for almost thirty years of work? Punching Piers Morgan? I mean that felt really good. And I mean really, really good.”
“I’d love to punch that twat,” Cameron admitted, staring into his whisky as he swirled it.
Clarkson chuckled at the Leader of the Conservative Party’s language. “Yes, but… so what? I’d like to make some mark, other than as being a blowhard.”
His vulnerability surprised Cameron, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “Not just a blowhard, the greatest blowhard… in the wooorld,” Cameron imitated, earning a chuckle. “Alright say you want to be an MP – where would you run? Here? Yorkshire? Would you run as a Tory?”
“I hadn’t got that far, it was just a thought,” Clarkson said with a mouthful. “Suppose I would run as an independent.”
“Okay,” Cameron paused for his own bite of crisps, “Let’s game this out. You want to run as an independent, but where? You’d need to be popular there since you wouldn’t have a party’s backing… think we could sort through your ratings and find which constituency watches Top Gear the most?” Clarkson scoffed it off. “Just a thought.” Cameron had tried to avoid thinking about politics but this hypothetical idea was more of a game, and he found it fun. “London… no you wouldn’t want to fight Boris on the buses... Where is Top Gear popular?”
“Dunsfold,” Clarkson said without much thought, but Cameron grabbed onto it.
“Yes!” he said as he pulled out his Blackberry and started typing. Clarkson rolled his eyes and went to the bar for another pint.
After a few moments Cameron came up after him and shoved the Blackberry at him, “Here, look!”
Clarkson pulled out his glasses and squinted down at the stupid, small phone. “Guildford, yes?”
Unabashedly, Cameron explained, “Yes, that’s the constituency your studio is in! Look at 2005’s result. See how close it was? You could definitely pull an upset there!”
Returning the phone and taking his glasses off, Clarkson dismissed the idea, “You’re pissed, mate.”
“I may be pissed but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong!” Cameron said finishing another dram. “Order me another… and a glass of water,” he said, turning to leave but stopping to add, “Oh, and a pork pie.” His order complete Cameron finally return to his seat.
Clarkson rolled his eyes at the spectacle, but he was having a good time, and he couldn’t help but wonder.
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25 January, 2010
BBC Television Centre White City
“You’re doing what?” Richard Hammond swore he misheard.
Clarkson sighed and repeated himself, “I’m standing in an election for Parliament.”
“Is this a joke?” James May asked incredulously. “Should we expect Barney Harwood to bust through the door or some sort of rubbish like that?”
“No, this is for real. I’ve been talking with David…”
“David? As in… Cameron?” Hammond interrupted.
“Yes… David Cameron…”
May scoffed, “Don’t tell my you’re a card-carrying Tor...”
“Could both of you shut up and let me speak!?” Clarkson exclaimed. They both silenced and he sipped some water. “Now… I’ve been talking with David, and I will be standing as an independent,” he stressed while shooting a stare at May, “in the Guildford constituency.”
“Ahh,” May said knowingly as he sat back in his chair.
Hammond chimed in, “What? Where the studio is? They probably hate us for speeding around their town. Why are you doing this?”
“Because of what May said.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” confirmed Clarkson, “After the Race to the North you asked me how much longer you thought we’d be doing this. It got me thinking.”
“Oh no,” Hammond joked.
“Well it did. And after talking with Cameron, I decided I would finally ‘put my money where my mouth is.’ It is happening. He arranged some meetings with Steve Hilton and I’ll put together a staff and come the general… I’ll campaign as an independent.”
“And the Leader of the Conservative Party and his strategy director are okay with this? You potentially taking a Conservative seat?”
“It’s just one seat,” said Hammond.
Clarkson nodded and pointed, “Exactly. Cameron and Hilton are doing this as friends. Backroom politics doesn’t need to be cut throat.”
May and Hammond looked at each other. “Well, mate,” Hammond sighed, “I guess… best of luck!”
Jeremy Clarkson’s Final Top Gear
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7 May, 2010
30 Millbank, Westminster
It was a stand-off. To his left, Brown glared at him suspiciously. To his right, Clegg’s steel gaze caught him off-guard. David Cameron’s hand hovered a few inches from his revolver, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. But without notice he felt a SLAM and was on the ground. He rolled over to Farage with a broken chair staring at him, grinning. There was another SLAM and Cameron woke up, asleep at a desk. It was Llewellyn, giving a smirk. “Good morning, Ed.”
“You’d think so,” Llewellyn said staring down at his boss. “BBC called it, so I guess it is official – hung parliament. We knew a while ago but figured you needed some beauty sleep,” he jested. There must be good news if Ed was so chipper, or he was extremely caffeinated.
“Alright then,” Cameron said, rubbing his neck. The past few restless nights have not been doing his body good. “Where’s it stand?”
“Take a look for yourself,” he pointing at the silent television. There were shades of red, blue yellow and purple. Cameron rubbed the sleepies from his eyes and focused again. “323…” he read out-loud, “Fuck me… That close?”
“Ah, he’s up,” Steve Hilton said walking in the room, coffee in hand. Cameron took the offer, the heat and caffeine began to revive him.
“So… what now?” Cameron asked, gingerly still sipping the hot beverage.
Hilton spoke first, “Well, since you’re just waking up I’ll remind you that despite being 650 seats, 326 is not the number of seats needed for a majority.”
Cameron was more awake than Hilton assumed, “Yes, yes with the Shinners and the Speaker the real total is 644.”
“And the BBC is including Bercow,” Hilton finished.
Cameron sighed, “Yes, I know, we’re exactly tied, actual seats being at 322, no more recounts, on the damn cusp.” He rubbed his eyes. “So… I know we’ve been talking with Robinson and Clegg, but do we really need to bring them in?
“The Lib Dem’s price is far too high,” Llewellyn admitted. “We did give them some meat in the platform but they’re still going to want movement of voting reform. It simply isn’t worth it when we’re this close.”
If one cue George Osborne came in, “Oh, he’s up.”
“Yes, yes, I am” Cameron rolled his eyes. More coffee helped. “What does Robinson have to say?”
Osborne shook his head, “It’s no use. He wants to be untouched by any cuts, which is absurd. Scotland and Wales would both split if they got such a blatant pay-off. We could work with a six-month supply and confidence, but, again, this asking price is high.”
“So we are stuck teetering on the edge!?” Cameron was exacerbated. He looked at the numbers again, “At least Labour can’t touch us – even with a coalition he’d need the Lib Dems, DUP, SNP, Plaid, SDLP, Green… That’d be a motely government!” Cameron enjoyed a moment of schadenfreude.
Hilton was nervous, “Look, for the sake of governance, one seat won’t make a difference – the backbenchers may get rebellious but there’s no way Labour is going to be able to put together all those parties. We’ll get to by-elections when they come, but we have a working minority.” He shook his head and sigh, “Now for appearances… it’d be better if we had at least one more seat… Damn. At any rate we’ll likely be back in an election much sooner than 2015, and I’ll admit we are in a better position than other parties. Damn! So close.”
Llewellyn saw this coming, and he threw a newspaper he had stuffed under his arm onto the desk, “I had advised against this, mind you.” David Cameron turned it over. He and Hilton gave each other knowing looks. “Without this sideshow we’d have one more seat and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”
Osborne picked up the paper, it was a copy of yesterday’s The Surrey Comet. On it was a picture of a large man with a large grin, taken on election night, the headline reading “Jezza, MP.”
Cameron jumped in, “Now, look. Jeremy is a friend. He unseated a LibDem, not one of ours. You may think this was a vanity project but I’ve talked with him and he earnestly wanted to help people. Nobody thought… you know what? I do not need to defend this…”
Osborne and Llewellyn both interrupted at the same time and nobody could hear each other. The comments were turning into shouts as Hilton held the paper, staring at the picture of Jeremy Clarkson. “Enough!” Cameron finally quieted the room, all three men still huffy. “Bickering will not solve this what is done is done. Our faults were our own. We needed to win one more seat but we didn’t. Clarkson did. Nothing to change that now.”
“So what, we enter in coalition talks with Jeremy bloody Clarkson?” Hilton teased. Cameron let a chortle at the idea and Osborne shook his head in good humor. But after they had their giggle, the idea was still hanging out there…
Conservative – 322 - 38.3% (not including speaker) 37.0%
Labour – 250 28.7% 29.7%
Liberal Democrat – 49 21.6% 23.6%
DUP – 8
SNP – 6
Sinn Féin –5
Plaid Cymru – 3
SDLP – 3
Independent – 2 (Clarkson, Hermon)
Green – 1
Alliance - 1
Speaker – 1
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7 May, 2010
Chipping Norton, West Oxfordshire
“I am sorry, what?” Jeremy Clarkson said into his phone. His contact on the other line repeated himself. “What does that mean?” What have I gotten myself into?“Come to London? Now!? Well… alright… Yes, of course I’ll hurry. You know how I drive.”
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7 May, 2010
10 Downing Street, London
“So that’s it then?” Prime Minister Brown asked, his face visibly showing signs of defeat. With the double stresses of running the country and the reelection, it had been a rough few weeks, and he was not as young as he used to be. If only this had been 13 years ago…
“Yes, I am afraid so,” Peter Mandelson said, again telling him that it was over. It was time to put away the “what ifs” – what if Clegg had not done well in the debates, what if there were no debates at all. “Cameron is officially going to give minority government a go, no coalition with the Lib Dems or DUP, although there are rumors of some implied support from the DUP. Frankly it is a smart move but one made out of the lack of options. Given the right circumstances… Labour, with LibDem, would be well placed to force a no-confidence. I highly doubt it will be five years until the next election.”
“Yes, but I will not be here to see it.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, guess I should pay the Queen a visit.”
“Yes, but what after?”
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7 May, 2010
10 Downing Street, London
“Her Majesty the Queen has asked me to form a new government and I have accepted.”
“Before I talk about that new government, let me say something about the one that has just passed.”
“Compared with a decade ago, this country is more open at home and more compassionate abroad and that is something we should all be grateful for and on behalf of the whole country I'd like to pay tribute to the outgoing prime minister for his long record of dedicated public service.”
“In terms of the future, our country has a hung parliament where no party has an overall majority and we have some deep and pressing problems - a huge deficit, deep social problems, a political system in need of reform.”
“For these reasons I aim to form a coalition with the independent Members of Parliament Sylvia Hermon and…” he paused, “Jeremy Clarkson.” A surprised murmur rose from the press there, as he had expected. “I believe that is the right way to provide this country with the strong, the stable, the good and decent government that I think we need so badly.”
“I want to put aside party differences and work hard for the common good and for the national interest. Despite the seat count, we have a working minority and I believe that is the best way to get the strong government that we need, decisive government that we need today, not to enter into a potentially polarizing coalition with another party, at this time.” Cameron made sure to emphasize that last bit, never know what the future may hold.
A few moments after Cameron stepped inside of the door, away from the press conference, Andy Coulson wouldn’t let him enjoy it in quiet. “So Hermon gets Minister of State for Northern Ireland and Clarkson the same for Transportation, and we get 324 seats. Will it be enough?” Cameron tried to ignore him, hoping to savor the moment, “I have no idea.”
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8 May 2010
4 Cowley Street, London
“We were close, you know? I felt a breakthrough, but the coverage… everybody was so excited about Clarkson running, a bloody celebrity candidate. I won that first debate, but to what end?” Nick Clegg shook his head, “We were so close. If everyone hadn’t been giggling about “Jezza for Parliament” we would’ve gotten more traction.”
The tension in the air was so thick it could be cut with a knife. In fact, the cabal had just pulled one out and stuck it in Nick Clegg’s back. He had seen it coming, though, and had turned around so the deed could be done. Clegg, Chris Huhne, Vincent Cable, and David Laws avoided eye contact in silence while Paddy Ashdown poured a drink in the corner.
Clegg was staring at his shoelaces, “So, what’s next?”
Ashdown turned around, “This isn’t over,” he tried to be the word of wisdom, “It is still a minority government and they’re going to have splitters, backbencher rebellions, scandals… there will be another election sooner rather than later. We’ll get our house in order and show that both the Tories and Labour are failing, and the elections are broken. We need our leadership in order and ready for when it falls, so who is it going to be?”
Huhne, Cable, and Laws looked back and forth at each other – they had no idea.
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Carlton Gardens, London
9 May, 2010
“So… thanks for coming.”
Ed Miliband stared back at his brother. “No trouble at all.” That was a lie. “So, is Gordon going to pull out or are we going to have to shove him out?”
“How should I know?” David was defensive.
“I just asking your opinion… if he is, do we even time to wait for the conference? How long do we think this government is going to last? Cameron could call a snap election in four months and catch us with our trousers down. It is no secret our coffers are empty but they still have some padding.”
David sighed. “Yes, you are right… Gordon knows it too, he was rejected more than the Party was.” Ed nodded in agreement. “But will he toy with us on the way out?”
Ed shrugged. “Guess we will find out tomorrow.”
David swallowed. “Are you… planning on standing?” He asked his younger brother, barely making eye-contact.
Ed looked directly at him, pausing to read him. “It seems you are. Who else do we think is?”
“Yvette. Ed, other Ed, was the only think holding her back. Harriet likely will back her.” David paused. “Cruddas?” His younger brother shrugged, to which David could only roll his eyes.
“Fine… Alistair is a non-starter. McDonnell may give it a go again but he has not chance.” Ed rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Is it too early for a drink?”
David shook his head and fetched some glasses. At the bar he asked over his shoulder, “Would Andy run?”
“Probably.” Ed muttered.
“Eh?” David didn’t hear him over the pouring and clinking. He came back with a glass for himself and his brother.
Ed took a glass and repeated himself before taking a sip. “I think Andy is.”
David sat back in his chair and sighed. “Ed… I don’t think I want it this time.”
His brother looked up in surprise. “You what?”
“I think the next leader is going to be damned to another loss in under a year, and then five years in the wilderness? Fuck no.” David admitted with another sip.
“Fuck me, you are serious. David – you have to run. You have to. You’re the ‘heir apparent’”
“I don’t want it! Not now, not like this.”
“Then when, David, when? When it is easier? You don’t want the job of Leader or PM for the perks – it’s a”
“There’s no need for a lecture. I know I ‘have’ to, I just don’t want to.” His tone of voice was getting sharp.
Ed was flummoxed. He started playing the game through his head. “So… you need to run, but lose, but not in a way that damages you completely.”
David sighed. “Seems that way.”
Ed got serious. “David – you’re my brother and I love you, but you know we do not see eye to eye when it comes down to it. I want to help you, but I am still going to do what is best for the party. If you don’t want to be Leader, we still need someone who won’t ruin the party during the next election.”
“Yes, I understand.” David tried to read his brother’s face.
Ed was looking off in the distance silently for few moments but then said, “Mind if I make a phone call?” David conceded. Ed selected a contact on his mobile. “Peter? It’s Ed, have a moment?”
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