Part 2: Somewhat Like A Campaign Manager

What Ho Proles!

As soon as Tony Blair gave us the off that fine day in April 2005, I knew I had to gather around me some of the finest political brains that the country had to offer. I say ‘offer’, of course, meaning ‘inflict on a constituency for the period of six hellish weeks of fierce electoral campaigning’. There would be no place for proleish incompetence in my campaign team. No room for sentiment. Not even space for men unwilling to wear a collar and tie for the full 24 and 7. I wanted chaps with backbone and a steadfast determination to win. In other words, I needed men after my own heart.

That is why I had My Man bring out the Bentley and rush me to my club in London. I knew the feasting hour would soon be at an end and I’d be sure to find plenty of Tory brains reposing after their meals and liquor. There are few things as eager in this world than a Tory high on spirits and, particularly, gin. I’m damn sure we’d win every election if only we could be sure of the supplies.

My first target was to find myself a campaign manager. I’d decided to ask my old friend Lawrence ‘Bomber’ Harris, who has known a few general elections in his time and was instrumental in some of Maggie’s finest hours during the 1980s, including personally manhandling Arthur Scargill’s combover during a protest in Leeds. Some people think that Bomber’s nickname is all a bit too much given the whole hoo-ha over Dresden and the like, but since Larry wasn’t there, I don’t think there’s much call for complaint. We only call him ‘Bomber’ because he has one of the most fascinating medical conditions you’ll ever have the good fortune to witness. He’s narcoleptic, which means that he can drops asleep at a moment’s notice, or even less if the wind’s in the right direction. Hence the name ‘Bomber’. Being with him is like standing on the wrong end of high explosive ordinance dropped from altitude. As soon as you hear the faint whistle issuing from that gap in his upper set of teeth: beware. It’s usually followed by a whooshing sound and then you’re struggling for air as a vacuum forms around the point where his body hits the ground. It’s astonishing to see and to hear. I once witnessed him sleep through a bowl of pea soup, and it was only through some quick thinking of Yours Truly, that he was prevented from a very green and messy drowning.

When I found him in his usual armchair at the club, he wasn’t asleep but reading The Guardian, though to be perfectly honest, I can rarely tell the difference. His face was contorted into a sneer as he muttered oaths against carbon footprints. Then he turned his big ruddy face up at me and uttered another oath which was far less ecological in nature.

‘What ho Bomber!’ I said. ‘I suppose you’ve heard the splendid news?’

‘I was wondering when you’d turn up,’ he said. ‘That’s the usual way with bad pennies.’

‘Bad pennies are preferable to good Euros,’ I assured him. ‘At least they proudly carry Her Majesty’s face and aren’t made from recycled Norwegian plastic and stamped with the holograms of Belgium potentates.’

‘I suppose,’ he said, folding his paper away. ‘Anyway, what do you want? Did your locals finally burn down the Hall and chase you from the village?’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if you’re up for a bit of campaign management. You did such as good job with Peter Smythe Whatsit, I figured to give you a chance to help make a real politician’s career, vis-à-vis, me.’

‘You?’ he said, leering at me as though I’d declared my intention to wed a Liberal Democrat. Then he laughed.

‘Oh, don’t be so narrow-minded!’ I said in my defence. ‘I’m perfect for C---- N----. The people know, love, and respect me. Maybe not in that order, and perhaps fear should be in the mix, but certainly, they know a good thing when they see one. And though I say it myself, Bomber: I’m a jolly good thing.’

He scratched his chin for a moment as he gazed out through the window. ‘Why not,’ he said, finally seeing the light. ‘I suppose it’s better than watching from the sidelines, though the chances are you’ll blow it with one of your usual stupid remarks.’

‘Stupid remarks!’ I exclaimed. ‘Have you been back sipping from the fount of ill-founded gossip again, Bomber? What stupid remarks would those be?’

He shrugged. ‘Oh, you know… Like the time you told the newspapers you said the Tory Party was inviting so many working class trolls into its ranks you feared the party conference would be held under Waterloo Bridge.’

‘I was trying to be funny,’ I explained.

‘Well, what about the time you suggested that the unemployed should be neutered and hunted in the place of foxes?’

‘A mere jest!’

‘Okay. And the time you suggested that Michael Howard should go the whole hog and wear fangs and cape since people seem to like horror movies so much?’

‘You know how it is, Bomber! Sometimes we have to go out and catch the headlines. It’s called developing a winning strategy.’

‘Well if I’m going to be your campaign manager,’ he said, ‘you have to agree that I decide the strategy. Is that clear?’

Now it was my turn to shrug, but at least I had my campaign manager. I left him scribbling out his initial ideas for a battle plan, though as I left the club, I do believe I heard a heavy whoomp sound from upstairs. Windows shook and dogs began to yap. Still, I could not begrudge the poor fellow his sleep. My campaign would soon start in earnest, and he would need his energy. I, on the other hand, would need an electoral agent. And for that role, I had a certain person in mind.