I do terrible things to amuse people
Westminster meets Mills and Boon. Warning: May require copious amounts of brain bleach. Was prompted by a thread on SomethingAwful in which someone remarked that there was so much press about Clegg's 'wooing' by the two party leaders that they expected to wake up and find the newspapers printing fanfic. So we beat them to it.
Nick turned in astonishment - framed in the doorway was the shirtsleeved form of David Cameron, uncharacteristically free of make-up and with wide expanse of his forehead glimmering softly in the pale spring gloom.
"But...David...how did you...?" Nick sputtered.
Cameron smiled as far as his orthodontics permitted. "How did I know you were here?" he said, suavely stepping forward with a cigarette lighter. "I have my sources - Gideon comes up here to recharge his solar powered calculator sometimes and says you often sneak up here for a crafty fag. Please...allow me."
Nick leaned forward and accepted a light. Cameron's eyes were blue, bloodshot from a seventy two hour photo-opportunity bender. They were large eyes, the eyes one might see gazing lugubriously out of a crate in Grimsby - ironically one of Cameron's campaign pitstops. It had been forty eight hours but the smell of halibut lingered almost imperceptibly on Cameron's fingertips.
"Actually, I was going to ask how you got out of Tory HQ," said Nick. "The press pack are six deep out there. And you're not exactly inconspicuous. When did you last powder your slaphead?"
Cameron laughed. "That's the genius of it - they all had their cameras trained on a shiny forehead, so we sent Hague out as a diversion." He leaned back against the railing and smiled persuasively. "Of course, my press pack was nothing like yours. And you had your own mob - Facebookers, Twitterers, students." His smile turned to an expression of pure, earnest hunger. His eyes filled with unshed tears and his irises swam in the pools of his eyes like exhausted blue goldfish. "Nick, I can't begin to tell you how much I want that - it's all I ever wanted. The kids. I know they secretly think I'm an Old Etonian stuffed shirt with a silver spoon in his mouth and fox blood all over his hands. I've tried so hard to make them like me - I'm on Facebook, YouTube, everything. But with YOU...if you helped me, we could have that." He waved an arm towards the Palace of Westminster, Pugin-pointed in the falling dusk. "We could be the hippest coalition in history, Nick."
"But..." Nick breathed out smoke and sighed. "But your policies, David. How can we ever agree? We have profound ideological differences."
"Don't you see?" gasped Cameron, passionately. "It's destiny. Look at our logos - you're the little yellow bird, frail and defenceless. I'm the big, open oak tree, spreading its boughs, offering respite for your weary, tiny wings. It's perfect - it couldn't be more perfect. And obviously so long as you don't crap on the Bentley, but that goes without saying."
Nick sighed again and his thoughts turned once more to the conversation he had had the night before with Gordon Brown, who had crudely told him to stop fannying about and drop 'em. Certainly Brown had apologised and sent the gift of a dozen red roses, but had Brown really been the one to send them? Nick suspected that the real sender had been Mandelson. Just how many men were jostling for his attentions?
I've written some fucked up shit in my time but vaguely homoerotic political fanfiction? Euuuuugh. So much wrong. I am now off for a Silkwood shower.
Nick turned in astonishment - framed in the doorway was the shirtsleeved form of David Cameron, uncharacteristically free of make-up and with wide expanse of his forehead glimmering softly in the pale spring gloom.
"But...David...how did you...?" Nick sputtered.
Cameron smiled as far as his orthodontics permitted. "How did I know you were here?" he said, suavely stepping forward with a cigarette lighter. "I have my sources - Gideon comes up here to recharge his solar powered calculator sometimes and says you often sneak up here for a crafty fag. Please...allow me."
Nick leaned forward and accepted a light. Cameron's eyes were blue, bloodshot from a seventy two hour photo-opportunity bender. They were large eyes, the eyes one might see gazing lugubriously out of a crate in Grimsby - ironically one of Cameron's campaign pitstops. It had been forty eight hours but the smell of halibut lingered almost imperceptibly on Cameron's fingertips.
"Actually, I was going to ask how you got out of Tory HQ," said Nick. "The press pack are six deep out there. And you're not exactly inconspicuous. When did you last powder your slaphead?"
Cameron laughed. "That's the genius of it - they all had their cameras trained on a shiny forehead, so we sent Hague out as a diversion." He leaned back against the railing and smiled persuasively. "Of course, my press pack was nothing like yours. And you had your own mob - Facebookers, Twitterers, students." His smile turned to an expression of pure, earnest hunger. His eyes filled with unshed tears and his irises swam in the pools of his eyes like exhausted blue goldfish. "Nick, I can't begin to tell you how much I want that - it's all I ever wanted. The kids. I know they secretly think I'm an Old Etonian stuffed shirt with a silver spoon in his mouth and fox blood all over his hands. I've tried so hard to make them like me - I'm on Facebook, YouTube, everything. But with YOU...if you helped me, we could have that." He waved an arm towards the Palace of Westminster, Pugin-pointed in the falling dusk. "We could be the hippest coalition in history, Nick."
"But..." Nick breathed out smoke and sighed. "But your policies, David. How can we ever agree? We have profound ideological differences."
"Don't you see?" gasped Cameron, passionately. "It's destiny. Look at our logos - you're the little yellow bird, frail and defenceless. I'm the big, open oak tree, spreading its boughs, offering respite for your weary, tiny wings. It's perfect - it couldn't be more perfect. And obviously so long as you don't crap on the Bentley, but that goes without saying."
Nick sighed again and his thoughts turned once more to the conversation he had had the night before with Gordon Brown, who had crudely told him to stop fannying about and drop 'em. Certainly Brown had apologised and sent the gift of a dozen red roses, but had Brown really been the one to send them? Nick suspected that the real sender had been Mandelson. Just how many men were jostling for his attentions?
I've written some fucked up shit in my time but vaguely homoerotic political fanfiction? Euuuuugh. So much wrong. I am now off for a Silkwood shower.