No, Prime Minister

A short story that thinks it's a sitcom

It was a weekend for Steve. Not the weekend as most people understand it. Not a Saturday and Sunday weekend. It was a floating weekend, as they liked to call it at Dickens & Co., to give the inconvenience a little sheen. Floating, because it could be any two days of the week. Dickens needs a flexible workforce, they said. Saturday is Valhalla in retail, they said. Steve wanted to point out that Valhalla meant the ‘hall of the slain’ in Old Norse, which to him, seemed appropriate. The slain, the mute, the castrati, lying prone before the indisputability of the five-day week.

His colleagues were getting younger, he noticed. That meant a gap had emerged in which conversation was a little more strained, a little less natural. They didn’t like to talk about politics, this lot, thought Steve. Boring, innit. They’d never heard of the bands he liked. Sometimes he’d tell them about the bands they’d never heard of and sometimes they’d talk about music he’d never heard of, which was fair enough, he thought. Though not very interesting. He was reasonably well liked was Steve, but not sought out at lunch, or for after-work drinks except at Christmas. He didn’t mind. He liked his own company.

“What you doing with your day off, Steve?” asked Shelley, the tiny checkout girl with the plum-coloured bob who was always pleasant to everyone. You’d have to be a monster not to like Shelley.

“Two days off, Shell!” said Steve, relishing the free time. “Busy, busy. Seeing pals. Maybe catch a band. Do some jobs. Check on me mum, you know.”

“Oh, aye.”

At the bus stop he ran into Big Joan, the formidable Head of HR, who terrified him. She was a mother of four, from Nigeria, and she did not mess about. If she had to tell you something, you would know you had been told. He nodded to her. She made a sound that was difficult to interpret and went back to her magazine.

“Getting the bus. Steve?” asked the young guy from Accounts who everyone called Beta.

“Getting the bus, Balachandra.”

Steve always used his full name, not his nickname. Everyone thought he was called Beta because he worked with computers, but Steve knew it was a common Indian nickname meaning ‘son’. He liked knowing these types of things. Beta was very good at his job. Competent with numbers yet curious about everything outside of his realm. You could talk to Balachandra, thought Steve. He would listen.

He could have gone out that night, could Steve. To the pub or the pictures. But he knew he had takeaway leftovers at home and the thought of his Lamb Dansak had followed him all day long like a nice smell. So he bought a six-pack and tucked into his beer and curry treat on the sofa. By the time he’d watched a documentary on a lady chess grandmaster, the first night of his weekend was practically over. Steve didn’t mind though. He’d had a nice night.

The familiar terror of waking up in the morning was soon followed by the peaceful tide bringing the knowledge that he didn’t have to go to work. It was the weekend, thought Steve, his weekend, anyroad. He’d meant to shop for some breakfast stuff yesterday but forgot. Cereal was for emergencies and temporary health kicks only. He had two eggs and two crusts from a loaf of Hovis. He toasted and buttered a crust and placed a fried egg on top, with plenty of seasoning. Perfectly sufficient, thought Steve and he scrolled through the morning’s news on his phone. The Prime Minister has done another U-turn. The Home Secretary justified her totally wrong decision by claiming she was “absolutely clear” that she would always act in “Britain’s best interests.” He felt his blood pressure rise. The President of the United States was fully supportive of agents who shot people dead who hadn’t voted for him. Steve had to wash his hands to be able to type ‘Fascist liar’ on social media.

He made a mental list of things he wanted to do that day – fix the shower, change the sheets, ring his mum – but his thumb kept scrolling, only to be interrupted by his having to type a response, or an observation that would take careful editing and spell checking. Some of his comments had garnered hundreds of upvotes in the past, but they were usually the more banal ones that pointed out something fairly obvious, like ‘bad people should be jailed’. His more pithy, devastatingly direct criticisms of the high and mighty never seemed to get any traction. He wondered if they were being hidden from view by the high and mighty, or if sometimes his swearing offended. By the time he got to midday, he realised he hadn’t moved from his spot at the table. He got up and stretched satisfyingly. He had wasted the morning, but it was his to waste. He stuck a frozen pasty in the oven and checked his phone.

“What are you doing?” he asked himself, dropping the phone back onto the table in annoyance at the habit. He made some tea and looked out into the garden. He had a ground floor flat in a low-rise block that had shared gardens. He found it satisfying to look out onto a bit of greenery, when he remembered, seeing birds in the trees and the neighbour’s cat eyeing them in patient fury. He liked that there were flowers and he didn’t have to tend to them. It was all included in his maintenance fee, you see. It was how things should work.

When his pasty was ready, he went back to his phone and checked on responses to his earlier contributions to global discourse. Nothing, besides one upvote for calling the most powerful man in the world an ‘orange nonce’. He headed to Substack. There was a similar level of vitriol there, but it was in longer form, so it didn’t count as doom scrolling. Lunch was disappointing. The pastry lacked flavour and swede dominated the filling like an earthy bully.

He really didn’t fancy fixing the shower. Plumbing was hard and if done badly could create more problems. YouTube was his friend when it came to practical matters, but it often led to clips of stand-up comedians and witty chat show guests. Why don’t I just run a bath? he said to himself. Problem solved.

The shower is great for quickness, but the bath was a lovely lie down in warm water. Plus you could read on your phone. It was an old phone with an aging battery. By the time it had run out, the water was cold. He replaced half of it with hot water, washed and got out to get dressed and charge his mobile.

He had to admit to a little disappointment with himself. He had done nothing today besides make barbed comments on the hypocrisy of world leaders, the UK Government and Blackburn with Darwen Council. Yes, he’d got things off his chest, but it hadn’t lifted any kind of burden. He put on some music, Metallica’s Load on vinyl, to accompany a frozen lasagne and a distracted scan of Kerrang! magazine.

Superb, he thought. Absolutely delicious.

He finally persuaded himself to ring his mum and make sure she was alright.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Wonders never cease.”

“How are you, Mum?”

“I thought you must have lost your phone. I said to your our Janet, ‘He must have lost his phone.’”

“No, mum.”

“You never call. Your sister calls every day.”

“Well, I’m calling now, Mum. How are you doing?”

“Are you coming Sunday? It’s pork.”

Steve explained the concept of the floating weekend once more to his mother, who thought it a queer idea and wondered why he didn’t come when he did have time off. But he told her about fixing the shower and all the other jobs he had to do.

Steve would call his mother more often but every time he did, he got told off for not ringing more often. It made it less of a welfare check and more of a voluntary punishment. He was glad he’d ticked it off, but always felt low after speaking to her. The pub’s what I need, he thought.

At the pub he had his usual exchange with Toby behind the bar.

“You seen anything of Nigel?”

“No, not seen him for ages.”

“Gave up the drink, didn’t he?”

“Aye, he did.”

“Too tight for a pint, ain’t he!”

“Probably!” They laughed together.

It might not have been sparkling conversation, but it was a comfort to speak to someone in a jocular, affable vein. It was his weekend and he deserved that, surely. He took a bag of crisps and his pint of Best Bitter back to his table, pulled out his phone and marvelled at the ignorance and stupidity of some people on social media. A second pint led to him telling them how ignorant and stupid they were. Finally, he told the Prime Minister of Great Britain that he needed to resign immediately and make way for someone with a conscience.

You can imagine his surprise when he woke in the morning to find the Prime Minister had actually resigned. He didn’t take any credit for it of course, but he was about to start criticising the candidates for the leadership when the doorbell rang.

Well, his shock at the Prime Minister’s resignation was nothing compared to his surprise when he opened the front door to see a limousine and a police car, and three smartly dressed and somewhat familiar people, flanked by two policemen.

“Mr Mills?” asked an auspiciously authoritative gentleman with greying temples and an air of gravitas.

“Aye. What’s all this then?”

“Sir David Sharpe, Chair of the National Executive Committee of the Labour Party.”

“We saw your posts on Reddit.” said the Asian woman in the middle.

“I was hacked!” claimed Steve, urgently.

“Hacked?” said the other woman.

“Probably by the Russians, yeah,” said Steve.

“The thing is,” said Sir David. “We thought they were rather good.”

“Very perspicacious,” said Bhavya Yadav MP.

“A real breath of fresh air,” offered Lily Powell MP.

“I particularly enjoyed your defence of beans on toast,” added Sir David.

“It’s a classic,” said Steve.

“Indeed. ‘I’ll take no culinary lessons from a country that thinks cheese comes in jars.’”

They all laughed.

“You liked my style, then?” said Steve, proudly.

“Very much so,” said Sir David. “In fact, with the departure of Mr Starmer, we wondered if you wouldn’t like to come and help the government in these difficult days.”

“Take us in a new direction,” said Bhavya.

“Steady the ship,” said Lily.

“But with exciting new ideas,” concluded Sir David.

“Hold on,” said Steve, looking up and down the road. “Is this some kind of prank? Am I being filmed for one of them ‘Gotcha!’ shows?”

“I can assure you, we are perfectly serious,” confirmed Sir David. “The poll numbers are, well…”

“Frightening,” said Bhavya.

“Disappointing,” corrected Sir David. “And it’s clear a radical change is required before the next election.”

Once his kitchen table had been cleared of debris, a somewhat baffled Steve Mills reviewed a contract that was being proffered, as Lily passed him a burgundy fountain pen.

“This is none other than Winston Churchill’s favourite pen. He signed a lot of important documents with this,” she said.

Steve thought better of summarising his criticisms of the great war leader for his anti-Indian racism. He also thought better of reading the contract, which had many pages and included much dense, legalistic language. He signed and dated the document before asking, “What, am I some kind of government influencer now?”

“No, sir. You are now the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.”

“Good grief,” he managed, sitting back in his chair and trying to take in this incredible turn of events. Yesterday, he was assistant manager of Dickens and Co. Today, he was the leader of his country.

“The thing is,” he started, “I was supposed to have today off.”

During the limo drive to London, Steve resolved not to be swayed by Establishment forces to lean towards the Right as soon as he took the reins of power. It had happened to everyone who ended up in Westminster and he needed to hold his ground and shake things up.

Steve was appraised as to what his first day would look like. His first job was to approve the cabinet. Bhavya strongly suggested he keep the current cabinet, as they were all very experienced in their roles. Radical change was required, yes, but there was a lot of muttering about babies and bath water.

“Let’s have a look,” said Steve, eyeing the list of Cabinet members and not wanting to admit he hadn’t heard of half of them. After all, he was the Prime Minister. But the ones he did know, he didn’t like.

“No, no, no, no,” he said. And with his first act, he sacked Streeting, Cooper, Mahmood and Reeves, four of the most established political voices in the country. “My sister, Janet, can do the Department of Health. She’s a nurse.”

“Very good, Prime Minister,” said a somewhat concerned Sir David. “I don’t believe she’s a Member of Parliament though. There is that. And we’ve used up our Emergency Dispensation on you.”

“No, you’re right there, Dave. I’ll make her a Lord or summat. Incidentally, I’m going to get rid of the House of Lords.”

“Get rid of the House of Lords?” asked an alarmed Sir David. “No second chamber?”

“We’ll have a second chamber alright. But it’ll be democratic. And PR. That’s proportional representation, Dave.”

“I am aware what PR is, Prime Minister, but, well, PR is likely to give a foothold to all sorts of minority parties.”

“Only if the people of Britain vote for them. And who’s topping the polls you’re so scared of right now?”

“The Monster Raving Far-Right Loony Party,” chipped in Lily.

“Exactly,” said Steve. “We need to stop appeasing them with Loony-Lite policies and go for proper progressive programs. My mate Balachandra can be Chancellor of the Exchequer, Shelley can be my Cabinet Secretary and Big Joan can have Cooper’s job. She’ll eat JD Vance for breakfast.”

“Well, it’ll get the ‘shitshow of a government’ off the front pages for a few days,” said Bhavya hopefully.

Sir David winced, yet had to reflect that this was what he’d asked for. It would only be an interim Government until the imminent election and with an enormous defeat looming, they had nothing to lose.

There was a phone in the car, which amused Steve so much he had to use it. He rang his Mum to tell her he was now the Prime Minister.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked.

“No, I haven’t. Do you think that would help?”

“Does this mean you can come Sunday? Janet’s coming.”

“Oh good, I need a word with her.”

Prime Minister Mills’ first day in Downing Street was an eventful one. He instructed the Head of the Civil Service, Shelley, to prepare legislation to enshrine the four-day week; bring in Universal Basic Income, thereby dismantling the welfare system in favour of free money for all; cut business rates for pubs; legalise and regulate cannabis; nationalise the water industry; close the US military bases; make quality insulation and solar panels compulsory in new builds and pump money into health, education and public transport.

“I don’t mean to be funny, Steve, but how are we paying for this?”

“You are not funny, Shelley. You are sensible. Get me Balachandra.”

In matters of diplomacy, Big Joan was no less bold. Steve delegated a meeting with the US Ambassador to her. He was demanding an apology for Steve insulting the President but ended up apologising to Joan, Britain and God.

Joan began by showing him a print out of a block of colour.

“What colour would you say that is, Mr Ambassador?”

“I know what orange looks like, ma’am,” he said crossly, with a Southern drawl.

She then showed him a picture of the President from the State of the Union address and asked him to compare the colours.

“I do not judge people by the colour of their skin!”

Joan made a sound that was difficult to interpret; part-scoff, part-chuckle, part-indigestion.

“We don’t know the colour of his skin,” she said.

Gathering himself, Mr Ambassador said, “I am more concerned with the other, er, allegations.”

Bringing up some documents on her laptop, Joan said: “I am happy to go through the 38,000 references in the Paedo Files, if you are.”

“Those files completely exonerate the President! I want a complete and public retraction,” barked the diplomat.

“Let’s just do a search for exonerate, shall we? No, nothing. Looks like we’ll have to go through the claims one by one. But in public, as you suggest. Let me set it up with the BBC and we can prove his innocence live in front of the world.”

Steve did handle some international matters himself though.

“Argentina is once again forcefully requesting the sovereignty of the Falkland Islands,” Sir David informed the PM.

“Yeah, alright.”

“‘Yeah, alright?’ What do you mean ‘Yeah, alright’? That’s your response to Britain’s thorniest land dispute of the last 100 years?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah.”

When Balachandra arrived he told Steve in no uncertain terms but without emotion that his plans would bankrupt the nation.

“What if every adult, including the richest individuals in the country, paid a flat rate of 20% tax?”

“You’d raise about the same in revenue as now.”

“But people would be happier.”

“A 4 day week, UBI, cheaper pubs, better health and transport would all improve people’s lives before the inevitable financial crash, recession and collapse of government.”

“It doesn’t sound too bad,” mused Steve as Sir David’s eyebrows raised almost to the point of leaving his forehead entirely. “Tell you what. Can you make up the difference by ensuring all these corporate tax-dodgers and off-shore billionaires contribute enough to cover my plans to make people happy. You know the types. Global brands who rake in billions and pay bugger all into the Treasury. And why not demand a billion from every non-domiciled media baron? If they want to poison public opinion, they’d better pay for it. ”

“I’ll have to crunch some numbers…”

“Crunch away, my old fruit. I know there’s a way. Just spare me the details, eh? Never offer me a spreadsheet. Excel is your love language, not mine.”

It had been an exhausting adventure and Steve had rarely been so happy to get driven home. At least he’d been fed and had nicked a bottle of red from Downing Street to relax with before bed. Funny, he hadn’t looked at his phone all day, he’d been so busy.

When he woke up in the morning, back in the familiarity of his bed, he thought, ‘What a funny dream. Me, as Prime Minister. Ha!’

He padded downstairs, put the kettle on and considered his options. He still had one egg, and one crust of Hovis, slightly more stale than yesterday. Fried egg on toast. Perfectly adequate.

Then, as he wiped egg yoke from his unshaven chin, he noticed on his kitchen table an antique burgundy fountain pen. The door bell rang.

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Image credit: Terry Ott, used under this license