The Lanarkshire region of Scotland was home to the Farquharson clan, famous for their vast collection of paintings and historical artefacts. Betsy Farquharson, the eldest of three daughters, was a keen polo player and it was on the field that she met Arthur Chuffingsome-Smythe, a dashing young man, who, while not sporting the most sparkling of personalities, was from a very wealthy farming family. Betsy had inherited her late father’s eye for an opportunity, and although she had hoped to be swept off her feet in a whirlwind romance, she pragmatically decided that at her age there were worse things in the world than marrying into wealth. Arthur never stood a chance.
For his part, Arthur Chuffingsome-Smythe was aware that his looks and family connections counted for more than his ability to talk to strangers, unless of course they wished to know the quickest pain-free method for birthing farmyard animals, in particular farrowing sows. When he first laid eyes on Betsy rampaging through the field on her polo pony, mallet in hand, helmet slightly askew, Arthur couldn’t help but notice the similarity between the way she was craning to see the ball and the look chickens have just before you start to wring their necks. But there was something about Betsy, apart from her resemblance to fowl, which caught Arthur’s attention. She was interested in him. Well, he thought she was interested, which was an improvement on most people’s reaction to him.
They courted for a year before Arthur finally took the hint and asked Betsy for her hand in marriage. The wedding was a grand affair, the connection of two noble families, not strictly through the bonds of love but the bonds of practicality. The newlyweds wanted to start a family immediately, however despite years of trying it seemed as if they would not be blessed with a child. Appointments with highly paid consultants came and went and they both became resigned to what they considered to be the inevitable. In a strange way, the disappointment of struggling to conceive seemed to bring them closer together, papering over the cracks that existed in what was ultimately a love-deprived union.
And then quite unexpectedly Betsy fell pregnant. Neither Betsy nor Arthur dared to believe, to dream, that they might after all of those years finally be able to raise a child. Every day they prayed, and it was only when Betsy Chuffingsome-Smythe held her newborn son, Theodore, in her arms that she could finally relax, to believe. Weighing in at just over 5lb, Theodore was their little miracle.
He took his looks from Arthur – blond haired, blue eyed, strong fixed jaw line – while his sharp intellect and ability to manipulate a situation to his advantage were very much inherited from Betsy. His angelic appearance masked the character of a fiercely competitive, demanding young child – and what Theodore wanted, Theodore got. The doting parents could see no wrong in their little miracle, and as a result they found themselves hiring and firing more nannies than they cared to count.
Theodore was not used to boundaries, to discipline, to people saying no. School came as quite a shock to his system, and yet in a short space of time he had adapted to his surroundings and began to flourish. And it was this lesson that would stay with Theodore for the remainder of his life: the ability to observe and adapt. He waited in the background, surveying the environment, working out a strategy not just to survive but to grow, to control.
Theodore was a straight A student and when he arrived at university he had perfected the art of controlling from afar, getting what he wanted without dirtying his hands. Yet he enjoyed the thrill of an argument and he was soon the star of the debating chamber, able to employ a withering put down when required, delivered to maximum effect with his top lip curled upwards, sneering down his nose at his opponent. Politics was a natural fit for Theodore and he took to his studies with the ease of an MP filing in an expense claim.
He graduated with first class honours and, thanks to his impressive family connections, Theodore took up a position within Screwuover Investment Banking Ltd, a partly state owned financial institution, which, despite costing the taxpayer an eye watering sum of money to subsidise, was often cited as being an example of ‘successful banking’, leading to six figure bonuses for management. During his five years at Screwuover, Theodore showed an aptitude for financial management, not just ensuring the growth of his clients’ portfolios – although the premise for the growth of the funds looked distinctly like a pyramid – but making himself a mint, over and above his already substantial salary, because of careful insider trading. It was with impeccable timing that, just before the great financial crash, Theodore left Screwuover and walked away with his reputation intact and his clients wanting to lynch his replacement who had clearly failed to understand the complexities of the pyramid system and was obviously to blame for their financial losses.
During his time at Screwuover, Theodore met Lord Russell of Aberton, party Treasurer of Unions-r-us, a political party with the aim of protecting the interests of the poor and tackling the rich, who, while citing this rhetoric, ensured that the very opposite happened. Lord Russell saw potential in Theodore and encouraged him to become a parliamentary lobbyist, learning the ropes from the local MP, the right honourable Malcolm Harriett, who, after thirty-five years representing his local constituency with great aplomb, was to stand down at the forthcoming election.
The fact that the general public found nepotism distasteful was lost on those members who worked within the Houses of Parliament, and while Harriett privately acknowledged to Lord Russell that in terms of intellect Theodore far outweighed his own son Malcolm Jr, he had expected his safe seat to remain under the family name. After all, it was on this principle that foundations of Parliament stood.
The Unions-r-us parliamentary rulebook required a majority of local party members to vote for their preferred candidate, and Lord Russell knew that Malcolm Jr could be considered a virtual shoe-in for the seat because of the popularity of his father. But being known for the dark arts had kept Lord Russell close to the centre of power for many a year, and it was unfortunate timing for Malcolm Jr that a national newspaper led with a story of his alleged drug taking and toe-sucking tendencies just as the voting papers were being dispatched.
Although strenuously denied, and later proven to be completely inaccurate, the damage had been done, and Theodore Chuffingsome-Smythe was chosen as the replacement for the right honourable and right royally pissed off Malcolm Harriett Sr.
Despite their apparent unpopularity with the electorate, Unions-r-us were victorious in the general election, winning a sizeable majority against the main opposition, WeKipped, who snatched defeat from the jaws of victory simply by being too slow to register party candidates for many of the seats in time for the election.
Theodore was the rising star of ‘new politics’, which itself was just a rebranding of ‘middle politics’, which itself was a repositioning of ‘old politics’ with new sound bites.
Theodore was recognised by the then Chancellor of the Exchequer, Stephen Green, who installed Chuffingsome-Smythe as a junior finance minister, where he worked tirelessly for the next three years securing promotion within the Treasury as he identified dividing lines between the Government and the opposition over the state of the economy.
The fact the dividing lines did little to ease the ongoing financial crisis and improve the economic conditions for the nation was not considered relevant within the political sphere. And yet while the Treasury continued to operate in its own parallel world to the rest of the country, pouring scorn on anyone who criticised its financial path, the electorate was seemingly losing patience over the ever growing deficit.
Prime Minister Andrew Greggs was less a national statesman and more a national PR representative who could smell trouble at 500 yards. And he knew the failure to revive the economy was trouble. Big trouble. And not just for the country or his political party, but for himself. He had grown accustomed to ruling the country and he was buggered if he was going to let it go because a few figures didn’t add up properly.
With eighteen months before the country would once again go to the polls, and while WeKipped dithered over the best way for their invertebrate leader, Ned St Noballs, to eat a sausage sandwich without it looking like a pornographic photo shoot, Prime Minister Greggs summoned Theodore to his Chequers residence under a cloud of secrecy and presented the ambitious young man with an offer that caught even the great tactician by surprise. Well, he had suspected that the day would come, but not even he had anticipated it this soon.
The sacking of Chancellor Green was as brutal as it was swift. With the Unions-r-us party reeling from the Prime Minister’s shock announcement, nothing prepared them for the even more dramatic promotion of Theodore Chuffingsome-Smythe to Chancellor of the Exchequer. And using a PR masterstroke to endear the newly appointed Chancellor with the electorate, Theodore Chuffingsome-Smythe was presented as the simple Theo Smith, the son of farming stock who had done good.
With the economy on its knees and growth proving to be as elusive as a grown up parliamentary debate in the Commons, all eyes were on the young Chancellor Smith to see what aces he held up his sleeve. It was not immediately obvious why the new Chancellor’s first act was to push through Parliament the passing of emergency legislation which required every individual on the electoral register to attend a religious venue weekly or pay a penalty fine. It was only when the legislation had made the statute book, and church leaders were reporting problems meeting the demand because of the significant increase in attendees, did the Chancellor introduce new legislation that privatised all religious buildings with a capacity of over ten people.
The Religious Building Privatisation Bill ensured that all attendees paid a membership fee, with half the takings being returned to the Treasury coffers. The Religious Building Privatisation Bill provoked a bitter bidding war with Saintsco, the leading chain of supermarkets in the country, successfully purchasing, albeit controversially and at a grossly over inflated price, the rights to all churches in the UK.
Saintsco, who hoped that the purchase would open up new markets in Asia and America, moved to reclassify all of their stores as religious premises, meaning that customers could receive a brief blessing and pay their weekly religious membership fee while at the checkout.
With the privatisation of religious buildings proving successful, and, more importantly, financially rewarding for the Treasury, Chancellor Smith introduced even more radical legislation to allow sponsorship deals of all major tourist attractions, events and famous people. As soon as the legislation was passed in the Houses of Parliament1, Chancellor Smith2 started to see the Treasury revenues increase. The improved financial position was hailed by Prime Minister Greggs3 as being the green shoots of recovery, although most people knew that more was still required to bring the deficit under control.
Although a political gamble with the impending election, Chancellor Smith decided to launch a comprehensive spending review, in part to try to identify ways of boosting revenue and cutting expenditure, but mainly to force WeKipped to accept his budget plans. As the realisation dawned on his colleagues that Chancellor Smith was sticking by his spending review, ministers and civil servants alike started to trawl through their budgets looking for savings to present to the Treasury.
The panicked sound of civil servants looking for savings was met by the distant but equally pained groan of stationery companies who saw the end of the gravy train of charging government departments different amounts for the same item. The climate of fear within Whitehall was heightened by ‘unauthorised’ press briefings which let it be known which departments were working, and more importantly not working, with the Treasury to deliver the required savings.
Professor Perry Partridge, a fifty-five year old academic pear, was the minister responsible for the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries, and Rural Trade (DAFaRT)4, which remained one of the few ministries yet to finalise their budget. Perry Partridge was a short pear with an overlong neck that only helped to emphasise the surprising degree of chubbiness around his middle. Partridge possessed a strong pair of deep set eyes, grey in colour, which, when combined with his steel rimmed glasses that were often found perching on the end of his nose, made anybody on the end of a Partridge stare feel as though he was delving deep into their soul.
A thoughtful pear, Partridge would often find himself misunderstood, considered by many to be aloof and more attuned to a world of theory than hardnosed practicality. And yet those who took the time to get to know Partridge knew this to be an unfair reflection of a pear whose inner compass guided everything that he did regardless of popular opinion. And those who really got to know him knew how Partridge loved his wallop, with a spiced glass of red wine his favourite tipple.
Professor Partridge sat in his Westminster office trying to read the briefing papers left for him by his junior ministers, his head clouded by the drinks reception he had attended the night before – his mind fuzzy from a combination of having one too many followed by a lack of sleep. He reached into his desk drawer, found his emergency paracetamol and some bottled water. Gulping down a capsule, he felt the tablet begin to white water raft down his throat disappearing into his chest cavity dissolving into his blood stream to begin its ascent back up towards the throbbing sensation that was his forehead. There was no doubt about it – water tasted so much better when it accompanied whiskey.
Taking off his glasses and rubbing his sleep deprived eyes, Partridge noticed the Daily Forecaster perched on the corner of his desk. This national tabloid had a remarkable record for delivering scoops, although whether the information was always obtained legally was a different question. Its front page screamed indignation at the Minister for DAFaRT for attending the drinks reception rather than agreeing his departmental budget. ‘DRUNK ON POWER WHILE WE SUFFER!’
A sharp knock at the door caused Partridge to raise his head, his eyes searching for something clear to focus on before the room started to spin. Gathering himself he called out, “It’s open!”
Chancellor Smith walked into the office, his thick blond hair swept back with its natural kink giving it the appearance of a wave rising high ready to crash on the shore below. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite his colleague.
“Well it’s all been happening this morning Prof. I was ambushed on my way here near to the London Eye5 by that pesky protestor fellow, you know the chappie, waving his anti-GM produce banner again. Apparently, food sapiens are running the world and need to be stopped. Well Prof, you’ll be pleased that I told him the last time I looked, the cabinet was not overrun with food sapiens and that to me the cabinet seemed to be a perfectly balanced group reflective of society at large. Assuming of course the society at large is white, male and privately educated.”
Laughing at his own story, Chancellor Smith’s eyes settled on the front of the Daily Forecaster.
“Unfortunate business.”
“Cut the crap Smith, I know you’ve set this up.”
“Not true my dear Prof. These negative headlines do not help the party in the polls. You see, we all end up being tarnished by the same brush. Just a pity you hadn’t signed off your budget before you were snapped at that drinks party. I somehow doubt this story would have made a footnote had the budget been agreed.”
“You really are a little shit.”
“Well, one’s head must be thumping this morning Prof. For someone with your academic background, your language is, well, industrial.”
“So you’re denying you had anything to do with this then?” Partridge picked up the paper, folded it in half and tossed it across his desk so that it fell into the sneering Chancellor’s lap.
“Not my style Prof. Now look, I don’t wish to be a bore but your budget does need to be finalised. You know my view. That contract will be worth at least £30bn–£40bn to us in the first year and if all goes well it could easily treble, even quadruple in value over the life of the next Parliament. And my good fellow, we need that revenue coming into the Treasury, so do put your hangover to one side and sign off on the paperwork.”
“I’m more concerned about putting my morals to one side, dear boy. This project crosses the line. Clearly you have no such problem, but then, of course silly me, you need to have morals to begin with before you can worry about betraying them.”
Partridge spat out the last sentence, making his words as sharp as possible and willing each one to dig deep into his colleague. Chancellor Smith stood quickly; tapped the newspaper against his thigh and dropped it back onto the desk. Partridge noticed how quickly the young man moved – a few strides and he was at the office door. Smith opened the door, and stepped partially into the corridor before turning back to face Partridge, whose eyes were boring a hole into the back of his head.
Smith paused, gathering his thoughts before his patronising tone caressed the words effortlessly.
“I really don’t understand this animosity Prof. I am not responsible for you being a drunk. Let’s be frank, it was only a matter of time before you were pictured somewhere. But before you give me another sermon on morals, I might ask you to think about your role in the development of the project. I don’t recall you backing away when the idea was first raised.”
“That’s because you and your cronies had me over a barrel. And all because I made the fatal mistake of turning to you for help to cover up that kiss and tell story.”
“And I was there for you Prof. You now need to be here for me when I need you. So as I’ve said before. If you think I’m behind that story then please do show me the evidence.”
Partridge stood from his chair, sucking his rotund middle in as far as he could. “Oh Honest Iago. I know thou’rt full of love and honesty. And weigh’st thy words before thou givest them breath. Therefore these stops of thine fright me more.”
Smith absorbed the barb, his curled top lip acting as his own built-in armour. He looked straight at Professor Partridge and started to clap his hands in mock applause.
“I must congratulate you on being able to quote Othello at this time of the morning, especially as I assume, judging by your complexion, that you have a hangover. Bravo indeed. Although you must realise that your intellect has never been in doubt, just your ability to keep a handle on running your portfolio. Oh, and of course turning up for cabinet meetings sober.”
He stepped back into the office, closing the door behind him.
“I would hate to see the Prime Minister have to sack the only food sapiens member of the cabinet, but the ball is in your court. I may be able to persuade him to support you, but there’s just one thing. If you know what’s good for you – sign off your fucking budget!”
1 Sponsored by Rat Removal Limited
2 Sponsored by Screwuover Investment Banking Ltd
3 Sponsored by Pastries, Pies and Treats family cake makers
4 Sponsored by Softly Softly, toilet paper for the discerning bottom
5 Sponsored by the Cataract Corporation: Seeing you right – ‘London Eye ticket price latest – reduced if you have an eye defect. Glass eye? – get 50% off’