So, the second in my occasional series of stand-alone vignettes regarding alternative Prime Ministers; hopefully not too ridiculous compared to the last one, although certainly with more homo-eroticism....
Part 1 can be found here.
"It's good to share, but sometimes it pays to shaft"
****
“The Prime Minister will see you now, Chancellor,” the Political Assistant said, opening the door leading off from the Cabinet Room. Gordon Brown gave her a venomous stare. Oh, he’ll see me, will he? He thought. How fucking generous of him.
Sweeping past without a word, he marched into the office, barely registering the door being closed behind him. A TV set to Sky was burbling away in the corner, something about the on-going fighting in Macedonia. I’ll have to see if I can find a way to leak what he said about the Albanians the other day, Brown thought, smiling, and sat down in an armchair.
“If this is about the Welfare estimates,” he said, “I’m not budging. I don’t care if Frank tries to go over my head to get more money for his pet schemes- if he wants more support for children’s centres, he can take it from the money he saved from the benefits cap.” He crossed his arms, defiantly.
From behind the desk, the Prime Minister regarded him with what appeared to be smugness, although given his usual expression it was hard to tell. Look at you, Brown thought with keenly-honed irritation. Fresh from the tanning bed, and the colour of the wall-panelling. You’re even more orange than Hain, if such a thing is possible.
“Nice to see you too Gordon,” he replied, with his trademark drawl. “Actually, this isn’t about Welfare. It’s not even about immigration, though I will bear in mind your paper objecting to ‘British Jobs for British Workers’. No. I wanted to see you for another reason.”
Brown rolled his eyes at the melodrama of it. The Prime Minister, media tart that he was, had always loved his own voice. “Get on with it,” he muttered, and was surprised to see that rarest of things in response- a genuine, almost predatory, Prime Ministerial smile.
“The pre-election reshuffle is next month, and I’m moving you,” he said, bluntly. “I want a clear-out of the Treasury so we can go into the campaign with a fresh approach. You’ve done good work, but any longer in that place and it’ll stagnate. Foreign Office or Home, your choice. I’ll even create an international aid department for you if you like.” He waved his hand, dismissively. “I know you always love giving money to the darkies.”
Brown closed his good eye for a second, and exhaled slowly. The anger was always there in the background, but this? This was something more. White hot rage burned in him. They had always tried to destroy him, of course, to cheat him out of what was his; whether it was the Rectorship, or the seat in Hamilton that the scumbag Robertson stole from under his nose, or….
Bastards.
“I… I… will destroy you for this,” he eventually whispered, breathless with fury. “I’ll go to the backbenches, and I’ll destroy you.”
The Prime Minister smirked. “Calm down Gordon, we’re not in the fucking Godfather. I’m offering you a fair deal. Foreign Secretary would be a step sideways, and a healthy thing for you. You need to get out of the Treasury more, meet new people. Get a girlfriend. It might stop you obsessing over things.”
“You promised me the Treasury!” Brown roared, punctuating each word by banging his fist on the table.
“I didn’t mean in perpetuity! Jesus, Gordon, you’ve been in Number 11 for years now. You’ve had your time. You did the things you wanted; now it’s time to move on. I’m giving you a way out.”
There was a pause, as Brown seethed. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I know you’ve always hated me. Laughing at me. I’m going to the backbenches. And I’ll have supporters, and we will bring you down.”
The Prime Minister, angry himself now, jabbed his finger at the other man. “Oh, you’ll have supporters, will you? Who the fuck is going to support you? Not on the backbenches- I don’t give a toss about them- but in Cabinet. Robin hates you, Cherie can hardly stand to be in the same room as you-“ a look flashed across Brown’s face that confirmed the feeling was entirely mutual “- and John… well, John has been asking me to sack you for months. What’s going to happen, are you going to make Clare Chancellor and run the Government as a twosome? You’re like Hitler in his bunker, playing with non-existent armies.”
He sighed. “This is all about ‘94, isn’t it? You could never get over the fact that I won the leadership when John died, while you were too proud to stand yourself. You go on about a deal. What deal? I said you could be Shadow Chancellor were I to become leader. That’s it! And yet you pretend that I gave you control of domestic policy, that I promised I’d stand down after a term to let you take over. All delusions- and even if it was true, which it isn’t, what does it matter? I’m Prime Minister now, not you. I can do whatever the hell I want!”
Brown stared at him, with perfect hatred. Why did people like him? But they did, and he despised him for it. The idiosyncratic speech, the jerky hand-gestures, the palpable insincerity oozing from every pore of his spray-tanned skin, the chiselled features… Why couldn’t they find substance, gravitas, sincerity, appealing? If only they knew what lay behind the mask. The arrogance, the vanity, the spite… They were already beginning to discover these things, though, and he could speed things along. Yes, he could bring this Government down. It would be a pleasure. He’d show them. He’d show all of them.
“People want a Labour Prime Minister, not… whatever you are,” he muttered venomously. “And they’ll get one, soon enough.”
The Prime Minister barked a laugh. “I met you in 1975. I remember what your views were then. Mine haven't changed. You’ve gone to the right, and I still believe what I believed then. The Left were fools then, and they’re fools now. Why? Because they enjoy losing!”
He leant forward, warming to his theme. “Being on the Left doesn’t win you elections. The average man on the street doesn’t care about social justice! He wants criminals locked up, immigrants out, Europe told to butt out… He reads the Express, not the Guardian! And that’s what I’m giving them, and because of it I won a landslide.”
He jabbed his finger at the Chancellor. “That landslide? That was because of me! Not you! And you know what? I’m going to be the first Labour Prime Minister ever to be re-elected to boot! There’s nothing that Michael Howard can do about that, and there’s certainly nothing that you can do.”
He began to raise his voice; his eyes, shockingly white against his brown skin, bulged from his face. “I’ve experienced it all, Gordon. There’s nothing that scares me now. Not the Tories, not those whining shits at the BBC and the Guardian, and least of all you. You know what happened in the 80s, how Militant threw everything they had at me, slashed my tyres, spat at me, tried to destroy my good name, even my sanity! I even thought about quitting for a time, did you know that? But I realised that my Party- my Country- needed me. They couldn’t bring me down then, and you won’t bring me down now. Do you know why?”
He stood angrily, sending his chair tipping backwards. “Because I’m Robert Kilroy-Silk! Do you understand? Robert Kilroy-Silk! I’m the fucking Prime Minister! Robert Kilroy-Silk, First Lord of the Treasury! If you want to take me on, then come and take me.”
The Prime Minister’s voice dropped to a whispered hiss as he leant forwards, his head inches from Brown’s own. “You want to destroy me, Gordon? Well you’d better be careful. Because perhaps, just perhaps, Robert Kilroy-Silk will destroy you first.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, both shaking with emotion, willing the other to be the first to back down.
Finally, Brown chuckled, turning away. “I don’t care what you say, Robert. You’ve not heard the last of this. I’m going to resign. And then the shit will really hit the tan.” He grinned nastily, and stormed out of the room.
The Prime Minister watched him go, and leant back, stretching, as he thought of the speech he would make upon his re-election. He whispered something to himself, as if confirming something in his own mind, and smiled.
“I’m Robert Kilroy-Silk…”
Part 1 can be found here.
"It's good to share, but sometimes it pays to shaft"
****
“The Prime Minister will see you now, Chancellor,” the Political Assistant said, opening the door leading off from the Cabinet Room. Gordon Brown gave her a venomous stare. Oh, he’ll see me, will he? He thought. How fucking generous of him.
Sweeping past without a word, he marched into the office, barely registering the door being closed behind him. A TV set to Sky was burbling away in the corner, something about the on-going fighting in Macedonia. I’ll have to see if I can find a way to leak what he said about the Albanians the other day, Brown thought, smiling, and sat down in an armchair.
“If this is about the Welfare estimates,” he said, “I’m not budging. I don’t care if Frank tries to go over my head to get more money for his pet schemes- if he wants more support for children’s centres, he can take it from the money he saved from the benefits cap.” He crossed his arms, defiantly.
From behind the desk, the Prime Minister regarded him with what appeared to be smugness, although given his usual expression it was hard to tell. Look at you, Brown thought with keenly-honed irritation. Fresh from the tanning bed, and the colour of the wall-panelling. You’re even more orange than Hain, if such a thing is possible.
“Nice to see you too Gordon,” he replied, with his trademark drawl. “Actually, this isn’t about Welfare. It’s not even about immigration, though I will bear in mind your paper objecting to ‘British Jobs for British Workers’. No. I wanted to see you for another reason.”
Brown rolled his eyes at the melodrama of it. The Prime Minister, media tart that he was, had always loved his own voice. “Get on with it,” he muttered, and was surprised to see that rarest of things in response- a genuine, almost predatory, Prime Ministerial smile.
“The pre-election reshuffle is next month, and I’m moving you,” he said, bluntly. “I want a clear-out of the Treasury so we can go into the campaign with a fresh approach. You’ve done good work, but any longer in that place and it’ll stagnate. Foreign Office or Home, your choice. I’ll even create an international aid department for you if you like.” He waved his hand, dismissively. “I know you always love giving money to the darkies.”
Brown closed his good eye for a second, and exhaled slowly. The anger was always there in the background, but this? This was something more. White hot rage burned in him. They had always tried to destroy him, of course, to cheat him out of what was his; whether it was the Rectorship, or the seat in Hamilton that the scumbag Robertson stole from under his nose, or….
Bastards.
“I… I… will destroy you for this,” he eventually whispered, breathless with fury. “I’ll go to the backbenches, and I’ll destroy you.”
The Prime Minister smirked. “Calm down Gordon, we’re not in the fucking Godfather. I’m offering you a fair deal. Foreign Secretary would be a step sideways, and a healthy thing for you. You need to get out of the Treasury more, meet new people. Get a girlfriend. It might stop you obsessing over things.”
“You promised me the Treasury!” Brown roared, punctuating each word by banging his fist on the table.
“I didn’t mean in perpetuity! Jesus, Gordon, you’ve been in Number 11 for years now. You’ve had your time. You did the things you wanted; now it’s time to move on. I’m giving you a way out.”
There was a pause, as Brown seethed. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I know you’ve always hated me. Laughing at me. I’m going to the backbenches. And I’ll have supporters, and we will bring you down.”
The Prime Minister, angry himself now, jabbed his finger at the other man. “Oh, you’ll have supporters, will you? Who the fuck is going to support you? Not on the backbenches- I don’t give a toss about them- but in Cabinet. Robin hates you, Cherie can hardly stand to be in the same room as you-“ a look flashed across Brown’s face that confirmed the feeling was entirely mutual “- and John… well, John has been asking me to sack you for months. What’s going to happen, are you going to make Clare Chancellor and run the Government as a twosome? You’re like Hitler in his bunker, playing with non-existent armies.”
He sighed. “This is all about ‘94, isn’t it? You could never get over the fact that I won the leadership when John died, while you were too proud to stand yourself. You go on about a deal. What deal? I said you could be Shadow Chancellor were I to become leader. That’s it! And yet you pretend that I gave you control of domestic policy, that I promised I’d stand down after a term to let you take over. All delusions- and even if it was true, which it isn’t, what does it matter? I’m Prime Minister now, not you. I can do whatever the hell I want!”
Brown stared at him, with perfect hatred. Why did people like him? But they did, and he despised him for it. The idiosyncratic speech, the jerky hand-gestures, the palpable insincerity oozing from every pore of his spray-tanned skin, the chiselled features… Why couldn’t they find substance, gravitas, sincerity, appealing? If only they knew what lay behind the mask. The arrogance, the vanity, the spite… They were already beginning to discover these things, though, and he could speed things along. Yes, he could bring this Government down. It would be a pleasure. He’d show them. He’d show all of them.
“People want a Labour Prime Minister, not… whatever you are,” he muttered venomously. “And they’ll get one, soon enough.”
The Prime Minister barked a laugh. “I met you in 1975. I remember what your views were then. Mine haven't changed. You’ve gone to the right, and I still believe what I believed then. The Left were fools then, and they’re fools now. Why? Because they enjoy losing!”
He leant forward, warming to his theme. “Being on the Left doesn’t win you elections. The average man on the street doesn’t care about social justice! He wants criminals locked up, immigrants out, Europe told to butt out… He reads the Express, not the Guardian! And that’s what I’m giving them, and because of it I won a landslide.”
He jabbed his finger at the Chancellor. “That landslide? That was because of me! Not you! And you know what? I’m going to be the first Labour Prime Minister ever to be re-elected to boot! There’s nothing that Michael Howard can do about that, and there’s certainly nothing that you can do.”
He began to raise his voice; his eyes, shockingly white against his brown skin, bulged from his face. “I’ve experienced it all, Gordon. There’s nothing that scares me now. Not the Tories, not those whining shits at the BBC and the Guardian, and least of all you. You know what happened in the 80s, how Militant threw everything they had at me, slashed my tyres, spat at me, tried to destroy my good name, even my sanity! I even thought about quitting for a time, did you know that? But I realised that my Party- my Country- needed me. They couldn’t bring me down then, and you won’t bring me down now. Do you know why?”
He stood angrily, sending his chair tipping backwards. “Because I’m Robert Kilroy-Silk! Do you understand? Robert Kilroy-Silk! I’m the fucking Prime Minister! Robert Kilroy-Silk, First Lord of the Treasury! If you want to take me on, then come and take me.”
The Prime Minister’s voice dropped to a whispered hiss as he leant forwards, his head inches from Brown’s own. “You want to destroy me, Gordon? Well you’d better be careful. Because perhaps, just perhaps, Robert Kilroy-Silk will destroy you first.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, both shaking with emotion, willing the other to be the first to back down.
Finally, Brown chuckled, turning away. “I don’t care what you say, Robert. You’ve not heard the last of this. I’m going to resign. And then the shit will really hit the tan.” He grinned nastily, and stormed out of the room.
The Prime Minister watched him go, and leant back, stretching, as he thought of the speech he would make upon his re-election. He whispered something to himself, as if confirming something in his own mind, and smiled.
“I’m Robert Kilroy-Silk…”