12. A Case of Francis Maude and Some Pringles

What Ho Proles!

At three o’clock, I heeled my best Party loafers across the lawn to where a dozen tables were undergoing a rigorous cross examination by a few of the larger animals in the Tory kingdom, down from London for free grub and as much plonk as you can drink while toeing a fairly straight party line. I must say, the sight cooled my hopes of ever seeing the potato snacks alive again. I’ve met Francis Maude on a number of occasions and know him as a thoroughly decent chap, but I must warn you not to let him get ahead of you in the line for the Pringles.

‘All the crisps are gone,’ said Barry Fry Davis as I joined him at the end of the queue.

‘And I suppose Maude got the last of them?’ I asked.

‘Aided and abetted by that David Willetts,’ he confirmed. ‘I hear that we’ve sent out for new supplies but don’t know when they’ll get here.'

I grimacing as I grabbed myself a paper plate I loaded it with two rather unconsoling sausage rolls. Maude was loitering near the catering trucks and I knew that the nibbles would stand no chance.

‘I’d put potato snacks out of your mind, Barry,’ I said. ‘You won’t be getting any so long as Maude’s about.’

Trying to look friendly, I adopted the pose one does when one is about to mingle sans Pringles: hand in one pocket, plate across the breastbone, and a look of mild indifference upon the lips. It didn’t take long before I was in the thick of the action. The normal dynamic of these occasions pulls everybody into little groups and I soon lost Barry to an animated discussion on Country and Western line dancing lead by Theresa May. Soon I was by myself and torn between two circles that were equally demanding my attention.

The group on my left was led by William Hague; the one on my right, by Michael Portillo. I was tempted to gravitate towards Portillo’s group if only to hear some of the crazy liberal ideas that always seem to put him at odds with the Party faithful. I don’t know. Perhaps he looked particularly impressive since he'd chosen to stand beside a large Henry Moore bronze that dominated the centre of the lawn. I say the statue dominated, of course, except that Portillo had everybody’s full attention. Portillo always dominates. It's his way. And I doubt if Moore could have imagined anything quite to square, toned, and brown as our Michael.

Just as I was wondering if I should go and shake the great man’s paw, Melvin appeared at my side.

‘Don’t do it,’ he whispered. ‘Let the big fish come to you. I always told that to Rosa and I’m now telling you. Don’t swim around them like you’re ready to pick food from their gills.’ He patted my arm and turned towards the spread of tables holding the buffet. ‘And since you brought up the issue of food,’ he mumbled, ‘I am quite famished. Where are these sandwiches I’ve heard so much about?’

And just like that, he was gone.

With men like Maude and Jenkins about, it didn’t require a four star general to see that the supply lines to the buffet would have to work especially hard to keep the front lines in sausage rolls and crisps. I decided to leave them to it and set myself the more moderate goal of introducing myself to William Hague. I’ve always wanted to meet him if only to see if he really talks like that in private.

And I would most certainly have succeeded in my ambition had not a loud ping rang out across the garden.

Everybody fell silent, thinking, I suppose, that something was about to be announced. For some reason – some might call it the way one naturally gravitates towards a true leader – all of us, to a man, looked towards Portillo.

Portillo just shrugged. I can’t deny that a few ladies in the crowd sighed audibly. Then I heard the ping again and realised it was coming from the Henry Moore sculpture.

Pushing Portillo out of the way, I stepped up to the bronze and gave it the knuckle. It resonated to my tap before it pinged a third time and I felt something disturb the air across my cheek.

‘That’s the oddest thing,’ I began.

‘Looks like Prescott,’ I heard somebody say and there was a ripple of laughter. The quip might well have come from Hague, as he’s always ready with the witticisms since he appeared on Have I Got News For You. Somebody write them for him, of course. I believe they also write them for Tony Blackburn. Anyway, I believe Portillo was about to pull William up on his poor appreciation of modern art when the statue pinged a fourth time. That’s when somebody screamed ‘He’s shooting at us!’ (again, I don't know, but it might have been Hague). That's when everybody hit the dirt.

I was heading for cover myself, bulldozing a doddering old waitress out of my way, when I looked towards the house and spotted a distinctive school cap ducking behind a chimney high on the Hall’s battlements. The sight stopped me in my tracks. Then it reappeared with the barrel of an air rifle before it and I had the sense to throw myself under a table. A fraction of a second later, the statue pinged again.

A rather odd set of circumstances had gathered under the table. They include my two friends and a certain junior member of the Shadow Cabinet. Barry was trying to get a signal on his mobile phone, Melvin was apparently trying to get a signal out of a plate of ham and egg rolls, and Junior was doing a damn good impression of a mole trying to dig through the turf to get a tunnel started.

‘This is it!’ Junior muttered as he scraped away at the dirt. ‘I always knew the revolution would begin like this…’

‘What’s got into young Frederick?’ asked Barry, as he played with his Nokia.

‘I should imagine it’s the eternal frustration of adolescence,’ I said, trying to ignore Junior’s burrowing.

‘Bit old for puberty, isn’t he?’

I looked towards Junior. ‘I don’t know. Old Howard’s a bit liberal when it comes to promoting some of these younger chaps.’

‘I think he meant Frederick’s too old for puberty,’ corrected Melvin, halfway through a roll.

‘Oh, in that case, I believe this to be a show of his frustration with the democratic process,’ I reflected. ‘Can’t say that I don’t feel for the boy... Having to ask the proletariat their permission to govern certainly leaves a bad taste in my mouth.’

‘The damn scoundrel!’ said Jenkins, hefting another load into his maw.

‘I always knew it would happen,’ cried Junior, giving up on the tunnel and turning to us. ‘I always said that a revolution would find British shores.’

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘this is most certainly a case of home grown terrorism, though the home happens to have over forty two bedrooms.’ I turned to Melvin. ‘I’d take your time with the food,’ I said. ‘We might be here a while, or at least until the armed response units arrive.’

‘No fear,’ he answered. ‘I’m being fired upon and I don’t intend to go out of this world hungry.’

Another shot came in and shattered a glass somewhere on the table above us.

‘You can’t let the lad be taken down by the SWAT units, Murgatroid,’ said Barry as he checked his voice mail. ‘You should go and have a word with him.’

‘Me? Why me?’

‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘You’re both cut from the same cloth.’

That, I simply could not deny. 'I suppose I could give it a try,' I said. 'But if I get shot on the advice of you, Barry Fry Davis, then the Welsh Tory Party will not hear the last of it.'