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Friday, 13 May 2011

David Cameron, Phillip Hammond & The Truth Behind The War On The Unions

David ‘The Condom’ Cameron sat in his princely leather backed chair, the gentle hum of upper class snorts and sexist jokes pierced the layers of cigar smoke that painted the air. Various service staff fussed about him, adjusting his napkin, re-filling his wine glass, and attending to his every wish. Under the table, one guy was on his hands and knees licking Cameron’s boots.

Moving on from Nick Clegg for a moment, Cameron munched enthusiastically on prime fillet steak, and took a healthy mouthful of rich, deep red wine. Relaxing back into the chair he glanced down at Nick Clegg as he continued to tongue bath Cameron’s already shiny brogues.
“You missed a spot!” He snarled and kicked out, causing the almost hysterical Clegg to scramble for the relative safety of the opposite chair leg. Instead he ended up grasping the calf of Phillip ‘Cancer Man’ Hammond. Looking down at his shoes, Clegg puzzled for a brief second as he realised that Hammond’s shoes were covered in a fine layer of wood dust.
“Strange” muttered Clegg to himself as he disentangled his arm from Hammond’s lower leg.
“What did you say fag?” Bellowed Cameron, craning his neck and peering below the crisp white table cloth.
“N-Nothing sir!” Cowered Clegg, scrambling back to his previous position at the feet of his master and enthusiastically starting where he left off, cleaning Cameron’s shoes with long, careful strokes of his tongue.
“You’d better make sure they’re clean fag!” Threatened Cameron, his face so twisted with rage that the wax that holds his eyes in place began to distort. His left eye slid upwards and was now fixed on the intricacies of the chandelier that dominated the ornate ceiling. Another servant rushed to Cameron’s side and nervously pushed the eye back into place, producing a scraper and sculpting the distorted wax back into its smooth, latex like state. Cameron blinked furiously for a few seconds, moving his head around and looking at random objects and people as his eyesight readjusted. Satisfied that the repair was carried out correctly, Cameron switched his gaze to the servant who had repaired him.
“You!” He snapped. The servant stood motionless, head bowed.
“Yes Sir” The servant replied, his voice trembling slightly as his thumbs danced around each other in a nervous fidget.
“What is your name?” He asked, his eyes narrowing.
“David Laws Sir!” He replied, his eyes firmly on the floor.
“Well Laws!” Spat Cameron. “You’d best be quicker off the mark next time!” Laws took in a sharp breath. Cameron aimed his words over Laws and at the other servants scrurrying about the room.
“You’d all better be quicker off the mark!” They all stopped and looked at Cameron, their eyes wide with fear. “I’ve already told you I’ll have your pensions if you don’t!” He said, his words sharp. Kicking out his leg he caught Clegg in the side of the face. “That includes you fag! Gold plated or not, your pension can be gone in the blink of an eye!” Clegg responded by licking faster.

Letting out a theatrical sigh, Cameron turned to Philip Hammond. He was busying himself by smiling as menacingly as he could into a compact mirror whilst lighting cigarettes. Frowning now and again, he flicked the lit cigarettes away with his cuprinol brown fingers and repeated the whole thing, over and over. Cameron paused as he watched, his eyes rolling. He rolled them slowly this time. The episode a moment earlier where his skin wax had distorted had left his eye socket sore.
“For the love of god Phillip!” He barked. Hammond wrenched his gaze from the mirror and extinguished both the latest cigarette, and his threatening grin, focussing on Cameron fully, snapping the compact mirror briskly closed.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” The servants went about their business, pretending not to be listening. “Britain’s Got Talent will not take you on as an impressionist!” Hammond’s shoulders sagged.
“But I look just like him!” He said, his finger tracing his leather like jawline. “Everybody says so!”
“Take it from me” sighed Cameron, absent-mindedly smoothing down the wax near his eye. “You’ll do no business as a Cancer Man impressionist!” Hammond let out a sigh, his demeanour one of deflation. “For god’s sake Phillip! Nobody even knows who he is nowadays!” Hammond’s feelings had been hurt, and he crossed his arms, examining the opulent patterns of the deep piled carpet. “I wouldn’t have even known who he was had it not been for those oiks on the Labour benches! The fucking X-Files! Infecting parliament with their working class rubbish!” Cameron snapped his fingers. David Laws came running. Nick Clegg banged his head on the underside of the table, swearing under his breath as he struggled to maintain his composure.
“Don’t forget the laces!” hissed Cameron under the table.
“Yes master” replied Clegg wearily, his tongue now coated in an oil slick of black polish and grime.
“Don’t just stand there Laws! Get me another port! Chop Chop!” Laws bowed his head and disappeared, returning a moment later with a fresh glass containing a rich red serving of finest port.
“Excellent Laws! Go now!” he said, waving his hand in a regal fashion. David laws bowed his head once more and turned, heading meekly for the servants quarters.
“Right, on with business!” said Cameron, rubbing his hands together. “How are we doing with the hit list?
“Perhaps I can help with that one?” offered a voice from across the room. Cameron and Hammond turned to look in the direction of the voice. It was Andrew Landsley.
Cameron pinched his nose. “I’ve told you Landsley, no talking to me! The only time you should be opening that idiotic mouth of yours is to put the other foot in it! I tried to get a doctor to sew it up but none of them will agree to be in the same room as you!” Landsley stood in the middle of the room looking glum. “If you want to get your ‘Privatisation & Franchise’ version of The Sims back this side of Christmas, I suggest you do as you’re told and jolly well keep quiet!”
“Yes David!” sighed Landsley, as he trudged back toward the open door. Looking over his shoulder one last time, he forlornly disappeared into the corridor.

“Hit List, Phillip!” Cameron barked. Phillip Hammond fumbled in his pocket, fishing out a piece of folded paper. Methodically he unfolded it, laying it on the table, taking care to ensure it was at right angles to the place mat. He produced a fine looking fountain pen, and having unscrewed the lid, made a show of scrutinising the carefully formulated script. Chewing gently on his bottom lip, Hammond produced his best ‘Cancer Man’ smile.
“All things considered, I believe we’re not doing too badly at all!” he announced.
“Details man, details!” ordered Cameron, leaning forward slightly, his tongue gliding across his wax lips as the scent of exploitation filled his nostrils.
Hammond clapped his hands twice. Two servants came scrambling through the door wheeling a large display board between them. Hammond pointed to a spot directly in front of Cameron. The servants duly complied, manoeuvring the board into position and standing there awaiting further instruction.
Cameron studied the pair of them.
“Don’t I know you two?” he asked. Hesitantly one of them stepped forward, his hands folded in front of him.
“Danny Alexander Sir!” he said. “And this is Chris Huhne” Alexander motioned nervously toward his colleague. Ignoring them Cameron turned his glare back to Hammond.
“Continue” he said.
“As you can see” began Hammond, producing a pointing stick from his suit pocket, “We have made good progress in short time” the tip of the stick rested on the surface of the board, just an inch away from a library book. The cover was unreadable. The book was dog eared and tattered, its spine and most of the text stained in a deep red.
“Is that blood Hammond?” asked Cameron hopefully.
“Oh, er, no” answered Hammond “Its ribena from a librarian’s stomach” Cameron looked on intrigued. “When we closed down the library we were forced to give her the statutory redundancy notice verbally as well as in writing, and she couldn’t ‘stomach’ all the noise!” Both men enjoyed the joke, throwing their heads back in laughter and pleasure as they imagined the harrowing mental image. Regaining himself, Hammond pushed on.
“So what’s that?” Asked Cameron, lightly stroking his chin. Hammond was now pointing to a white piece of paper. It was difficult to make out the text, but you could clearly see that the word ‘CANCELLED’ had been stamped across it.
“This is a pension statement from a schoolteacher” replied Hammond gleefully. “One of our biggest victories!” he said, the excitement clear in his voice.
Cameron nodded sagely, a slight expression of pride spreading across his waxy cheeks.
“I mean, honestly! Spluttered Hammond. “What makes these teachers think they’re entitled to retire before 65? Since when have they made millions running big corporations?”
“Quite right!” agreed Cameron as he held up his port glass, motioning to a servant to replenish its contents. “Make sure the press think I’m drinking guinness” he whispered. The servant nodded obediently, refilling the glass and disappearing discreetly.
“I mean, if these scroungers wanted to retire at a reasonable age, they should’ve formed a company and evaded their tax bill!” spat Hammond. Both men shared a gaze as they basked in the moment.
“Phillip” said Cameron, pointing at the board. “What is this?” Hammond looked at the board and flushed a little.
“That’s a nurse’s uniform” Hammond tried to look as businesslike as possible. For a second neither man said anything.
“So I’m guessing that this is to show that we’re dealing with all the lazy nurses in the health service?” asked Cameron, his eyebrows raised.
“I suppose so” stammered Hammond, fidgeting.
“You suppose so??”
“What can I say?” he said, defending himself. “I like polyester!” Cameron put his head in his hands.

“So what is the blank space for?” asked Cameron from between his fingers. Hammond wasn’t listening. He had the mirror open again, practising that grin, moving the mirror from left to right in the search for the perfect angle.
“Phillip!” screeched Cameron. In the corner a servant dropped a plate in shock, its fragments scattering across the floor. In a flash the servant was on his knees, scrambling to gather the pieces together, hoping his indiscretion had been missed.
Choosing to ignore the broken plate, Cameron fixed Hammond with an icy glare. “For the love of all things that are good and fucking green about this country, focus man!” For the second time, Hammond snapped the mirror closed and stuffed it into his pocket.
“But David, it’s my thing!” Hammond moved to take a cigarette from the packet on the table, but thought better of it, his hands returning to his lap.
“I’m sorry David” whispered Hammond. “I suppose I just fell in love with the idea of making people laugh with my smile rather than frightening children”
“Did someone mention children?” Cameron craned his neck, glaring into the far corner of the room. From behind the hat stand appeared Michael Gove, his withered fingers outstretched in a menacing fashion as he glided across the floor, the sun causing the stack of his angled top hat to give off a dull sheen.
“For goodness sake!” despaired Cameron, slamming his palm down onto the table, sending an echo around the room “Michael, do not make me regret making you Schools Secretary! It was against my instinct to give the job to a child catcher, but I gave you a chance! Get out and do your job!”
Gove’s nostrils were twitching. His eyes darted left and right, his body tensed and ready to pounce as his senses picked up the unmistakable scent of child.
“Quite right old bean, quite right!” bumbled Gove, backing towards the door. “How remiss of me! Something has come up! Please excuse me!” with that he turned and made for the door, his footsteps fading into silence. A few seconds later the lull was pierced by the blood curdling scream of an adolescent. Hammond and Cameron looked at the open door.
“He never misses” mused Cameron.
“Extraordinary” said Hammond, his stare remaining on the door, his eyes unblinking.
“Hammond!” breathed Cameron. Phillip Hammond looked at him blankly. “Empty space?” Cameron motioned at the board.
“Ah yes!” said Hammond, regaining his thoughts. “This one is slightly trickier than the last” he said, his face grimacing slightly.
“Tricky?” asked Cameron, one eyebrow raising.
“This space is for the Train Drivers” said Hammond.
“So?”
“Well, we’ve just started laying the ground for our attack, but it’s going to get complicated”
“How so?”
“Well, we’ve used a lot of the standard mood music we were using with the others” Hammond gestured at the board, pausing for a second to shoo away Huhne and Alexander, sneaking a feel of the nurse’s uniform before it disappeared out of the door with the two servants.
Regaining himself, Hammond continued.
“You know, overpaid, lazy, outdated procedures, need for reform, blah blah blah!” Hammond waved his hand.
Cameron nodded. “By all that, I’m hoping I’m reading this as cut cut cut!” Both men smiled, sharing the conspiracy.
“Absolutely!” said Hammond. “But it’s not as simple as it seems”
“How can it not be?” spluttered Cameron. “These bastards earn over £40,000 per year! And they weren’t even bankrolled through private school by their parents! They have a pension that will pay for their old age, but they don’t have a trust fund!” Cameron was enraged. A small bead of wax was melting and started rolling slowly down his forehead. Hammond motioned to smooth it in for Cameron, but thought better of it.
“I’ve always said Hammond!” shouted Cameron, his anger climbing still further. “If you have to rely on your pension when you retire, you don’t come from the right stock in life to deserve one!” Cameron picked up his port glass and emptied it with a single gulp before throwing it at the oak panelled wall, sending glass shards flying everywhere. Under the table, Clegg grabbed the table leg, overtaken with fear.
“What’s the problem?” demanded Cameron. "Just get The Sun and The Times to do what they normally do and run hatchet pieces about their union” Hammond remained silent as he listened. “All the readers will be so envious they’ll turn on them, we can make out we’re taking on vested interests, and hey presto another barrier is moved from our path!” Hammond looked down at his lap.
“What?” asked Cameron.
“It’s a private industry” muttered Hammond.
“Say that again” hissed Cameron, his voice quivering.
“It’s a private industry David” Hammond smiled awkwardly. “We privatised it if you remember”
“How can this be?” asked Cameron, his eyes wide in disbelief.
“I don’t know” whispered Hammond.
“How come the bastards are so well paid then?” demanded Cameron. “Why didn’t they go the way of the buses?” Hammond shrugged. “This wasn’t supposed to happen!” he shouted.
“You see my problem David” Hammond said flatly.
“There’s no problem!” growled Cameron. “Just lie!” He stood up, pacing back and forth as his mind hurtled.
“We lied about the coal miners in the 80’s, we lied about the cuts last year, we’ve lied about bigger things than this Hammond!”
“But David” questioned Hammond “How am I supposed to get past the problem that they will just say it’s all our fault?”
“Let them say what they want!” snarled Cameron. His right ear had dropped an inch due to his sweating, the wax starting to thin and stretch. He hadn’t noticed, and Hammond decided it wasn’t the best time to point it out. “We own the press for god’s sake!” “They say it’s our fault, we say they’re greedy, they’re outdated, they’re lazy, they’re socialists! I want those pensions Hammond! I want them! Nobody should have a pension that works unless they’re an MP or they run a big business! I’ve had enough of these unions thinking they can upset the natural order of things by getting good deals for the working man! I won’t have it!
“Yes David!” answered Hammond, not daring to open his mirror a third time. Cameron strode across to the window. Michael Gove was sitting on the lawns, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Next to him was a small pair of jeans. He delicately picked them up and placed them carefully in a nearby bin before silently gliding back toward the door. Cameron decided he had had enough of people putting these problems in the path of his grand masterplan. He could not believe the barefaced cheek of these Train Drivers and their ‘ASLEF’ band of communists actually believing they are entitled to have an opinion on safety and pay! How dare they? Cameron spun around to face Hammond. His ear finally gave way and broke free, skidding across the carpeted floor and coming to rest near the drinks cabinet. Clegg crawled hurriedly across the floor on his hands and knees and retrieved it, carefully cleaning it of carpet fibres and dirt before proudly offering it to his master.
“Good work Slave!” Barked Cameron as Clegg re-attached the ear and moulded the moist wax back into shape, producing a comb and reinforcing the curve of Cameron’s quiff at the same time.
“Hammond!” he hissed. “Nobody has a pension unless we, as Tories think they deserve it! Nobody gets a living wage unless their breeding signifies they are worthy! Train Drivers are no different! Make it clear that they will be worked like dogs until they drop, and the only pause they will be allowed will be to thank us for it!”
“Yes David!” replied Hammond obediently. He gathered his papers and rose from his seat. Suddenly, a thought flashed through his mind.
“David” he said.
“What?” spat Cameron, grimacing as Clegg moulded the bottom of his ear lobe to the wax on the side of his head.
“Why don’t we just solve the problem by putting robots in the front of trains?” Cameron sighed.
“We tried putting one in charge of London and look where that’s gotten us!” Hammond nodded to himself, turning and heading for the relative cool of the corridor.
“Hammond, there will be no excuses! These Train Drivers must be cut down before they start giving other workers the crazy notion that they can get decent wages and pensions too! This nation was not built on fairness and justice! It was built on Conservative values!”
“Yes David!” called Hammond from the corridor.
“There! Finished!” announced Clegg as he smoothed the last part of Cameron’s ear into place.
“Good work Clegg!” said Cameron. “Now get yourself into the laundry! You finished my shoes but you haven’t started on my britches yet!” Clegg’s shoulders sagged. “I warn you Clegg” said Cameron with a wicked smile. “I’ve been spending a lot of time in the gym this last week, so I hope your tongue is up to the strain!”
“Yes master!” groaned Clegg as he trudged away in the direction of the laundry room.
“Good boy!” cooed Cameron. “We might just get a full five years out of you yet!”
Looking over the sprawling greens from the window, Cameron breathed in deeply as he surveyed his kingdom. In the distance he heard Clegg sobbing gently as the laundry bin slammed shut.
"God bless the coalition!" he said with a smile.

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