The beating heart of the Aspiration Nation.
A bally spiffing time being had by all. Simply marvellous, everything said and done. Another cork- Veuve Clicquot- shaved the chandelier. Clegg scampered off in search of the offending item, dustpan flapping about like a mutilated appendage.
"Crumbs! Dash it, Johnson! Watch the bloody crystal, why don't you." Even Benyon was in relatively good spirits, but the old dog obviously still had half an eye on the fixtures and fittings. No doubt anxious to keep the place looking spick and span for the lovely Emma.
Champers a popping, ideas a bubbling! But, the man was not going to be best pleased if anything untoward happened to that crystal. Man never seems completely relaxed, unless he'd just bagged a brace of buzzards or some such. Can't say that I blame him awfully, being just a tad jittery. Damn things don't come cheap, you know. Especially what with all of that expenses balderdash blowing up in our faces. Jolly poor show, that. Gallagher needs his bloody arse tanning, if you ask me, happy to administer.
IDS remained adamant, quietly fuming at the slow pace of Welfare Reform. Eager to exploit the British free press, separate the strivers from the shirkers. "If those wheelchair shirkers can find their damned ways to Westminster they can bloody well steer themselves to a place of work. Seriously, one never hears Pickles complaining about mobility issues..."
Pickles guffawed, leaned in and cut himself another generous portion of the Battenberg; proceeded to ease it down with his umpteenth measure of Port. Nobody was counting! We were, as previously stated, 'all in this together.'
JC was still still bleating on about the virtues of a Sky Monopoly, easily dazzled by the frightfully massive potential for advertising revenue. Walker and Hester had heard it all before, already edging towards the money.
"No point crying over spilt milk, JC." Truth be told, I'm not entirely convinced that he's yet fully relinquished the reins.
Simpers smiled benignly from his corner; to the untrained eye he appeared to be listening but, like any top city bod, obsessed with his Times crossword, we all knew he was away with the expenses again. A vacant King Edward, maybe; bespectacled eyes set, as ever, on maximising those zeros. Broadbent and Clarke gazed on as if reviewing the produce.
"My good fellow, it's not a bloody competition," Osborne chided. Common knowledge, Simpson almost legendary in The House; all hail the celebrated King of the Claims!
Walker and Hester finally content, tracking Osborne, like flies around... well, you get the idea. One has to hope the bounders won't be permitted to settle on the tucker. See to it you oik, Clegg!
Gove drained his glass, gleefully accepted a refill, mumbled something about incorporating 'expenses claims' into the next round of 'long-overdue' National Curriculum changes. "Keep those upstart teachers on the back foot." Dacre raised an approving eyebrow.
"Steady on, man! Dashed useful for the Etonians, why not, but for the bloody whippersnapper plebs?" Mitchell's short fuse was already afizzing. Even Simpson glanced up, assuming, briefly, the approximation of a sprouting Maris Piper, magnified pupils swimming like confused tropical fish in an aquarium.
"Academies, academies, academies, man! Drive up those corporate investments, Gove. For heaven's sake, old boy, don't miss this gravy train, will you?"
"Have a quiet word with Willetts, why don't you. Man's been packaging university-influence off to industry at breathtaking speed. Sponsors, PFI; carve the joint while it's still warm, I say, while Osborne's still got the economy pinned down. Investment opportunities are never going to look this good again." Well, somebody had to state the blindingly obvious. The banking twins were entirely mesmerised, still hanging on Osborne's every word.
Willetts stood sentinel in the doorway, suitably smug. Large port glinting in the late afternoon light, more than a touch too vulturine, if you ask me. Dacre and Mohan were smiling benignly, at some recently dispatched wisdom, eagerly putting Levison to bed no doubt. Watch the loose cannon, Willetts, have to hope Dacre's ready to jump back on board, bloody daft rouge phase worked out of his system.
Osborne curled his lip, that otherworldly look that he's so exquisitely mastered, blood-drained face, gleaming like a winter moon. Inseparable bankers were still gazing up into the lunar light. There simply has to be a 'Twilight' role, just perfect for the old sod. Honestly, if we weren't simply the best of Bullingdon 'buddies' I jolly well doubt that I'd trust him with the economy. Almost got his fingers burned with all that Libor kerfuffle too. Had to close ranks pretty damn swift then, nip the rumours in the bud, as t'were. Note to self; a quiet word with Walker.
Benyon rounded on Osborne, somewhat too mantis like, guided him towards the Beluga caviar, flies still in tow. Another plate of crackers ready to the fore. IDS, armed with fork, intercepted the entourage, deposited an oily black wedge onto a cracker, popped the entirety into his mouth.
"Absolutely, Osborne, old man, we're almost spoilt for choice. Quite literally bags of overseas interest, don't you know. Trouble is, those bloody lefties at The Guardian have got this poppycock into their befuddled heads that the forests represent some sort of National Heritage. Would you bloody believe it?"
"Buggeration, Benyon, you're not the one that the crowds are booing? It's poor old Osborne standing there. Man can't keep the economy pinned down indefinitely. Leftie press are bound to sniff a rat and gatecrash the party sooner or later." Johnson was waving his arms about like some sort of crazed beast. "Clegg, old boy, see to this port stain, why don't you, before Benyon starts to get jittery again?"
Clegg scuttled off to the kitchen, post swift; obedient little puppy. Who bloody well invited him, anyway? Apparently said I'd take another peek at his job description but, really, I'd sooner gouge out my own eyes with the caviar fork, if I could wrest it away from Osborne and the circling flies.
Simpers was reanimated, one could see that he was agitated. Gove and JC were rounding on the irksome issue of the NHS yet again. Even Pickles paused, mid-mouthful. Thing is, JC's got a damn good point; if we don't busy ourselves with the sell offs soon the carcass of the ruddy thing's still going to be out there, undermining the entrepreneurs, for another God-only-knows how many years. And I'd so promised Margaret that I'd finally dispatch the beast, poor old bird.
"Grossly oversubscribed, if I'm honest. Who in their right mind wouldn't want a slice of that cake?" JC was almost beside himself with excitement; familiar glazed stare and vacant grin plastered on. "A simply splendid, market-forces-free source of endless profit, don't you see?"
'If I'm honest,' well I had to stifle a chuckle. "You're not there to be honest, you old coot. You're there to package the frightful thing off to our 'friends' in industry, mush, mush!"
"Damn fool! No ballsing this one up, JC," Johnson laughed. "No stumbling blindly down that Archer-Aitken route either, old boy. If I see another confounded 'Tory falls from grace' story in the book shops..." Every bit the bumbling hooray, the man was already edging towards the vintage port.
Damnedest thing, really, but I could've sworn that somebody had surreptitiously dumped a sack of spuds on the choice Chesterton, in the corner. But blinked and there he was again, Simpers and his bloody expenses forms, not a sack of spuds at all. Every bit the Proud King Edward, returned to his throne.
"Somebody sort Simpers out with a slice or two of that Kobe beef," Nothing horsie here, kept Broadbent's lot well away from the catering gig. Interesting to hear what the Tesco twins made of the spread; Different world to refuelling the plebs, what ho!
"Another bottle of Veuve Clicquot, Osborne, what do you say?" Christ alone knows where Pickles puts the stuff. He'd already drained another flute.
"Clegg, Clegg! Anyone seen bloody Clegg?" Really, what is the point of that man?
"Golly, sorry Mr Cameron, sir. Phone call!" Handed me the damn thing like it might explode in his obsequious little face.Buggeration, be easier to train one of the hounds.
"Speak, man, speak! Who the Devil is it?" Avert those sad, puppy-dog eyes, you bothersome little oik, and grow a spine, why don't you? "Well?"
"I'm afraid it's that bloody Blair again, Mr Cameron, sir, Tony! Something about Windrush wanting to cash in on the NHS free-for-all."
"Thank you, I'll take this in the study. Run along now!"
Dacre and Mohan conjured notepads from the aether. Willetts face was like thunder.
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