‘Oh great! Season 4 of ‘The Crown’!’
‘Oh yes.
World-beating! But wait a minute, Carrie. That caption says May 3, 2021. None
of this has happened yet. How can they know about it?’
‘Shh. I’m trying to
watch the programme.’
‘Oh God! I don’t
look like that. Surely they could have found somebody better looking! And he’s
nearly bald! Where’s the phone. I’m
going to get on to that new head honcho we put in – Davey Somebody – and make
him take this off.’
‘Boris! It’s not the BBC, it’s Netflix. Now
shut up and listen.’
‘Oh. I was expecting to see the Queen.’
A hint of a mirthless smile flickers beneath
an impressive moustache. ‘I’m afraid Her Majesty is otherwise engaged. She
asked me to see you on her behalf.’
‘Hold on! I recognise you. You’re Tommy Lascelles. You
were in the last series or the one before. You can’t see me, because you’re
dead.’
Unlike his interlocutor, the urbane
functionary is not in the least nonplussed. ‘Don’t believe everything you read
on Wikipedia, Mr Johnson. It sometimes…….exaggerates.’
‘You mean “prime minister”’
‘Mr Johnson.’ The mirthless smile was back.
‘Well, the point is that once parliament has
passed this ‘Unilateral Cancellation of EU Trade Agreement Bill’, I’ll need HMQ
to give the Royal Assent pronto, so we can implement the populi voluntatem without delay and all that.’
‘And, of course, if you ask Her Majesty to take
that action, she will have to comply.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Which is precisely why you will not do it.’
‘What do you mean, Lascelles? You can’t
obstruct the will of the people.’
‘I have here a few papers for your perusal.’
(The phrase: ‘Restricted. Top Secret. Not for Fatman’s eyes’ are fleetingly visible
on one.)
‘Oh. I’ll take them back to number 10. Dom
reads that kind of stuff for me.’
‘The papers will not be leaving this room,
and, Mr Cummings is (Lascelles consults his watch) as of now, ‘a guest of Her
Majesty’, as I think they say in the films. Apparently something about his time
in Russia?’
‘There’s no point trying to frighten me
about leaking stuff to the press. The ephemerides are all in my pocket
and the BBC daren’t sneeze without my say so.’
The immaculately turned out royal servant
produces a newspaper and eases it across the table. ‘If the papers I showed you
a moment ago are too voluminous, perhaps you might cast your eye over this?’
“‘Bang Up Boris’ call. Gove poised for No
10.” What’s this?
‘The front page of tomorrow morning’s
(Lascelles raises his eyebrows and utters the next word as though wiping
something nasty off the sole of his Berluti Oxford) Sun. I
managed to persuade them to tone it down from ‘string up’ to ‘bang up’.’
‘That bastard Gove! It’s a fake, Rupert
would never do this to me.’
‘If you examine the papers I suggested you
should read, you will see that some (the pause is followed by the same tone of
voice used for ‘Sun’) gentlemen who had hoped to profit from
certain actions of yours felt they had not received the degree of forewarning
you promised, and so have not profited as much as they had anticipated.’
‘Can I get my mobile?’
‘As you know, these audiences are strictly mobile-free.’
‘Then I need to get back to Number 10 right
now.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Some
kind of security alert. The police say there’s a suspected criminal in the
building. However (it’s that mirthless smile again) should you wish to avail
yourself of a generous offer from President Putin, you may leave now and take
asylum in Krasnoyarsk.’
‘What the hell is that?’
‘A place in Siberia. The president has
provided special transport from here to the airport, and your flight leaves in
a couple of hours. Aeroflot. I’m afraid he couldn’t get business class.’
‘You can’t do this. I’m the prime minister!
I’m the prime minister!’
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