PPML Meets the Queen

The Party Leader (formerly known as the Prominent Party Member, or Donald) was, for once in his life, terrified. Quaking in his snakeskin shoes terrified. Terrified that he was going to cock up his political career, and although now, a month into his new role, he had accumulated enough money to buy his way out of said cock-up, it still wouldn’t be good for his public image. He preened it in the windows of the Bentley. Attractive, with a decent head of hair, and a craftily engineered aura of suppressed animal. However, he doubted if the Queen would appreciate the lion waiting to pounce. He could only hope that the waft of eau-de-man would make her warm to him.

She probably wouldn’t warm to his plans to convert Buckingham Palace to the Party HQ, not only because she didn’t vote for them in the first place, but because she had already expressed her disapproval of the Leader’s determination to keep ‘those whining proles in their place – the sewers’ in a one-off interview with The Guardian, The Times, The Telegraph, The Swindon Advertiser, The Fishermen’s Weekly, and even The Daily Mail. It was suspected that she was the leader of an opposition group, supposedly plotting a Gunpowder Plot-esque attack on his home, but it hardly seemed possible that HRH would be prepared to don a balaclava, all for the sake of getting rid of a politician who knew the truth. The damned woman was supposed to stay out of political matters, anyway. And it was preposterous to suggest that she would risk her silver curls for his sake.

As one of the footmen announced the arrival of the Party Leader, Elizabeth rushed to conceal the map of the Party HQ that she was scrutinising. Bollocks. What was it with that imbecile turning up at the most inconvenient of moments? He would phone in the middle of the night, in the middle of breakfast, in the middle of Britain’s Got Talent. It was like being eighteen again with Phil, yearning for the sound of each other’s voices. The only sound that she wanted to hear from the PPML’s mouth was the gentle moan of agony – if this plan went well, then that delightful melody would be winging its way through the air in the near future. She didn’t feel the burning need to justify her actions to herself, but Elizabeth felt that it was the conventional thing to do. After all, her ancestors had spent most of their lives killing off opponents, so just to wipe out one in her lifetime was no big deal.

The country’s realisation that their monarch could do more than sit atop a horse and wave would cause shock waves, yes, but that shock would be easier to deal with than the horrors that the PPML could implement. He looked ghastly, he smelt ghastly, his manifesto was ghastly. The sooner the man was got rid of, the better. Hearing the ominous creak of snakeskin shoe on the stairs, Elizabeth settled down to receive her victim.

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As you can probably tell, I’m still in a blogging rut. It’s very much ‘Panic on the streets of London, Wiltshire and everywhere bloody else’ as far as I’m concerned. I have two weeks to cram two years’ worth of knowledge. And I’m the one who can’t even remember what she had for dinner last night. Sigh. Ah well.

 

 

 

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