I’ve moved on. Take a look at my main blog at iandsmith.com.

My story The Day I Asked Blake Morrison If He Raced Pigeons has been cherry-picked at ABC Tales.

My story Last Place in the Labour Party Treasure Hunt is at Eclectica.

Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport …

… Tony’s in Paterson’s office … Paterson tells him how to test concrete in the runway … Tony wants to do it his way … Paterson explains the real purpose of the hazardous chemical … Tony’s in a dilemma … and there’s a VIP CEO looming …

You know, there comes a time when a chap needs to get his hand right down the back of his trousers to scratch no matter how big and important he is. The heat from the storage heater in Paterson’s office was so like, making me itch in a very embarrassing place. There was a smell of wet carpet from an orange patch in the corner, and the roof leak sounded like a horse filling a bucket. Apparently, I had to make cool concrete cubey things for some reason.

“Surreal, baby.”

“Please stay in the lab and make these cubes, sir. That’s all I ask, and stay out of trouble. We like CEOs to start where everyone else started, at the bottom.”

I had to number cool concrete cubey things, and then someone would crush them. That way they could tell whether the runway was going to be strong enough for planes, or not. I was in deep do.

“That’s the point of the test, sir, to stop planes crashing through the runway. Have you got that, sir? It’s not rocket science, and it’s a big responsibility.”

It sure didn’t appeal, but Paterson said it didn’t appeal to him either. He didn’t like sitting in a temporary office with the rain falling on him. We were all in the same mess together, apparently, and there was no room for superheroes like me. But I wasn’t going to be held back by a twerp like Paterson. I needed to get out of the lab if I was going to like, meet Mr. Sheep.

“Here’s the real deal, Paterson dude. I’ll make the surreal concretey cubey things, if you allow me out of the lab to test the actual runway itself.”

But in Paterson’s book, that wasn’t allowed.

“We’ve a process here, a schedule.”

“Oh hello, dullo! What’s the point of me only testing wet concrete? Stuff the boring old process. Anything can happen to concrete once it’s put in place.”

“So now you’re the expert in concrete, sir? I know you’re keen to prove yourself, sir, but look.”

Paterson gestured towards a plan. The runway was so large on the plan it made the site look like a perforation on a postage stamp.

“He says we need to test for strength in-situ. What can I do?”

Paterson was talking to the plan, and rubbing his eyes with his palm, looking kind of shattered. Apparently, they couldn’t go digging up concrete to test it. They hadn’t even started yet, never mind tested its strength.

“Be serious, sir. Do you see the scale of the problem, sir? We’re late starting and we’re not getting anywhere slowly. We’re way behind, sir.”

“Oh really. Way to go. Life on the edge. Why the hazardous chemicals?”

Paterson grabbed the phone.

“Plasticiser isn’t hazardous, sir. It’s not even dangerous. It’ll make your bum itch forever, but it’s not anthrax.”

I eased myself backwards and forwards on the edge of the seat. It must have been the plasticiser giving me the sudden embarrassing itch.

“So, how am I going to like, test the plasticiser?”

Apparently, plasticiser didn’t need testing.

“It makes the concrete pour better and essentially faster. Jim can be laid-off sooner to save money, save a fortune especially when no one knows we’re doing it, so think on, sir, and keep it to yourself.”

“Right. So I’m supposed to like, keep schtum.”

“Exactly, sir. We’ve got retarder to stop concrete setting in the mixer, accelerator to make it set faster on the ground, and rubberiser so it doesn’t crack being a bit under-strength because of the plasticiser. Plasticiser weakens the concrete, you see.”

“Weak? Crumbs. But won’t that mean planes will fall through?”

“Not at all, sir. Have some faith in science. The only problem with the plasticiser is we’ve run out.”

He dialled a number on the phone.

“Paterson here. McCreedie, Ardrossan International Airport.”

He put his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Jim Baird. What do you know about him, sir?”

“I’m not stupid. He so like, works the mixer, yah.”

“Slowest plonker I’ve ever seen… Jamie, where’s our plasticiser? …You said that last time… Now listen to me.”

He changed hands with the phone. I looked out of the window and saw Jim struggling to fill the hopper, leaning into the giant shovel. You know, Jim could hardly be thought of as slow. He’d only been there a day, like me.

Stopping the shovel, Jim jumped down from the wooden breakwater and stood next to the man from the Faroes. They both scratched themselves deep down behind, so the fronts of their overalls lifted at the crotch in unison. It must have been the plasticiser doing it. They stopped, sniffed their fingers, and opened cigarettes letting the cellophane blow away.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the weak concrete stuff. Being a smart cookie, I realised it all made sense. McCreedie was a ruthless organisation run by megalomaniacs who were going to turn Ardrossan International Airport into a killing zone to feed their desire for short-term profit and power. Paterson and Mr. Ferguson were going to escape with the dosh. Covering my backside was now my number one top priority. Weak concrete was weak concrete, and no one would survive an airliner crashing through the runway, big time. Proving they were making weak concrete was what I needed to do before I found myself standing in the runway using flares to avert disaster. I was going to be a hero, the worm that turned, the dude, the daddy.

But Jim and the man from the Faroes threw down their cigarettes and stood to attention, saluting me. I stood up and saluted back, but it wasn’t me they were saluting at all. A navy blue jag rolled into view under the window, its well-inflated tyres pinging gravel. The car door slammed.

“No, no, no, Jamie, now is when we—”

The door burst open, but it wasn’t two jags Johnny, my deputy PM. It was a tall, but not lanky, man with distinguished greying hair resting over the tops of his ears like catkins. He was so like everything I wanted to be. Here was a leader, a decision-maker, someone people looked up to, a man who knew that gravitas meant more than having a serious bottom, although his posterior was proportional to his importance in every respect.

“About this invoice, Paterson. Corporate advice? What in the name of Colonel William O’McCreedie is corporate advice?”

Paterson dropped the phone.

“That’s where—”

Mr. Ferguson sniffed the air.

“Shut up, Paterson. What’s that smell?”

“That’s Tony Blair’s ‘Pour Homme’ aftershave. He’s hiding behind the door.”

“No there’s a tangy whiff. Pear drops.”

I stepped out from behind the door.

“They’re mine, have one bud.”

“Ha! …er… What’s yer name again?”

“Blair’s the name, Tony Blair. Or Bono to you, kiddo.”

“Good God. Not the misunderstood but otherwise visionary ex-PM and leader of the greatest political movement of the twentieth century? Pleased to have you on board, Tony, and I don’t mind if I do.”

“I am working in the lab, Ferguson dude. Getting to grips with the testing.”

Mr. Ferguson popped the pear drop in his mouth, sucking enthusiastically.

“Good fellow. Glad to hear it. Full steam ahead with the testing. Let’s inspect the lab, and see if Tony Blair is everything he’s cracked up to be. Pear drops ‘eh. Cool.”

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.

Check out Ian Duncan Smith’s satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out his Lulu Storefront, and his sensible blog.

concrete nasdaq construction scotland lab_rat WMDs plasticiser workers britain CEO iraq

Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.…

Tony faked a signature to pay a huge bill he’d inadvertently run up back in the hotel … now he’s confronted by an irate boss holding the invoice … and there’s embarrassment ahead about the hazardous chemical that has bothered him for so long … Tony’s journey into the wilderness continues …

Saliva cornered Freeman’s thin, rapidly moving, mouth. Apparently, I wasn’t in a holiday camp. Apparently, Mr. Ferguson hadn’t visited the tourist information suite in his entire life. Apparently, Mr. Ferguson contacted Freeman about the invoice personally, and when the CEO contacted anyone like personally, something awful soon happened to that person afterwards.

“Use of corporate hospitality suite? This could ruin us, Bliar. This could be the end of us. You signed an invoice for corporate advice in the CEO’s name. What were you thinking of, giving McCreedie’s name and signing invoices as the CEO? Corporate advice? What corporate advice?”

I was used to the sight of ravenous opposition baying for my blood. Soon they’d be eating out of my hands.

“That’s where—”

“Shut up, or I’ll shut you up for good. Pull any more of your stunts and you’re finished.”

“You know, there may be troubled times ahead, but try to understand. Progress is good for everybody.”

But Freeman wasn’t cool about progress. I was there to test the concrete, nothing more. There were worse jobs than testing. Sorensen Marine Processors for example.

“Any more stupidity and your testing days will be over, Bliar. You’re going to find it very hard round here, so my advice is stop messing around. You’ll never be going home ever, and you’ve no chance of a good evaluation if you keep messing around.”

“Evaluation? You don’t scare me with your talk of an evaluation. That’s like, limp-wristed political accountability gone mad.”

But Freeman wanted to know what took so long at the dump.

“Stop to study something did you?”

“I was looking.”

“Looking for what? Ships, incoming enemy aircraft, flying freaking saucers?”

“Hazardous chemical actually, hotshot. I know you’ve got it, bud. I know where it is, and I want you to stop being naughty boys and trying to hide it.”

“Look, I’ll teach you something for nothing, Bliar. The hazardous chemical is plasticiser for the concrete. That’s all it is.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing sinister. Now stop asking stupid questions, get some skates on, and stop messing about or I’ll kick your ass around this site forever, you tiny, freaking, soft school satchel, and tidy this place up for Chrissake, it looks like a battlefield. Mr. Ferguson will be here tomorrow, and he’ll want to see a tidy lab, and an upright member of parliament trying not to look like a poodle.”

“Okay daddio. I’m making like a busy bee, and you won’t see me for dust.”

Of course, I knew all the time it wasn’t like, dangerous. But I was starting to itch in a very embarrassing place.

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.

Check out Ian Duncan Smith’s satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out his Lulu Storefront, and his sensible blog.

concrete nasdaq construction scotland lab_rat WMDs plasticiser workers britain corporate_advice iraqevaluation

Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.

… Tony returns to his lab after seeing drums of dangerous chemicals at the dump … he’s confronted by the madman who charged at him with the broom … the Hotel Machiavellian tourist information suite comes back to haunt him … the journey into no man’s land continues…

Outside the lab, I steered the barrow left, but the man in the attractive combat jacket moved in front, stopping me from reaching the lab. The man in the combat jacket folded his arms. Mr. Sheep was playing hardball.

Jim Baird appeared at the corner of the lab.

“Meet the man from the Faroes.”

“Does daddy cool have a real name?”

“Does the pope?”

“Yes, in factotum, Mr. Einstein, he does.”

“What is it then?”

“Pope Sean John. Now why’s this guy stopping me from reaching the lab?”

Jim moved in front of the barrow as well. Paterson, struggling for breath, caught up with me.

“Now let’s all stay calm.”

Jim rubbed cement dust from his eyes.

“Why were you in the storeroom without permission, Blair?”

Paterson wrung his hands.

“I tried to stop him.”

“I needed a pick. What’s wrong with going in there for a pick?”

Apparently, no one messed where the man from the Faroes had swept.

“Oh huh! Big deal.”

“Why are you here anyway? An ex-prime minister. You could get a normal job, anywhere. You shouldn’t be here on a construction site. You’re posh.”

“No, no, I’m not posh, ya. I’m with you. I’m the wrong Tony. Someone made a big mistake.”

“The Civil Aviation Agency doesn’t make mistakes, you tart.”

“Hey, cool. Tart. Whatever. The Civil Aviation Agency doesn’t run me. I’m a free spirit. Go on, josh me some more. I like a bit of bonding, repartee, merry banter.”

“You’re Paterson’s spy, you cretin.”

Paterson said I wasn’t.

“Right on. But hey! Wait a darned minute. I’m no cretin. You know, I’m a trained lawyer. So eat my shirts.”

I decided to play tough and let them have it. I pulled the barrow back, and rammed it at them both. They stepped aside. The barrow battered the lab door open. It careered into the lab. It slid across the floor, out of control.

Freeman turned round. The barrow hit his knees. He staggered back. He was holding a piece of tartan-headed paper from the Hotel Machiavellian tourist information suite.

“What in the name of Colonel William O’McCreedie is corporate advice?”

“That’s where big people pay little people to tell them they’re nice over and over again.”

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.

Check out Ian Duncan Smith’s satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out his Lulu Storefront, and his sensible blog.

concrete nasdaq construction scotland lab_rat WMDs saddam workers britain corporate_advice iraq

Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.

… Tony’s been ordered to dispose of the mountain of concrete that Jim Baird removed for him … that means a trip to the dump … Paterson is ever watchful … Tony’s obsession with deadly chemicals resurfaces … are these the WMDs he longed to find in Iraq? …

The name Baird had a kind of rugged ring about it, like my own rugger-tug name.

The dump was at the farthest edge of the airport. I could feel broken breezeblocks through the thin soles of my trendy but impractical golden Nikes. Wind-shattered plastic crackled on a fence, and seagulls stretched and flew. Something toxic laced with resin fumes made my nose itch, and there was an electrical hum as though a million flies were gathering forces nearby.

I wheeled the barrow across the dump. Paterson followed. It really wasn’t the place I would have chosen, but it so had to be done. I had to walk where Lib Dem party workers feared to tread.

Wooden pallets, giant spools, nests of wire, old tyres, the metal teeth of a broken caterpillar track, blocked my path. I tipped the concrete mountain off the barrow.

I saw the poison containers, the drums of toxic liquid, stacked like cans of deadly fizzy drink, and then it all made sense to a clever clogs like me. Paterson, like Saddam, was a naughty liar. The chemicals hadn’t been destroyed at all, and I told him. I told him he was a very naughty liar, and I was going to make him eat humble pie because those were drums of nasty chemical. He said something very rude indeed.

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.

Check out Ian Duncan Smith’s satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out his Lulu Storefront, and his sensible blog.

concrete nasdaq construction scotland lab_rat WMDs saddam workers britain progress iraq lib_dem

Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.

… Tony fights off his attacker … he must destroy the mountain of concrete and open the lab door … but the man won’t lie down … and look what happens to Tony’s adversaries …

The man followed me, sweeping, destroying my tracks, and staring all the time in a rather impertinent way. I stopped at the mountain of concrete in front of the lab door, and confronted him with my hand raised in the universal signal of peace commonly used by grown men. I tried to calm him in his own lingo.

“Hey, whatsa your problemo, gringo?”

But the man leaned on the broom and didn’t answer. I had no time for bad losers. I had a job of work to do. I needed to enter the lab, and so did my flock.

I grabbed the pick in both hands and circled the mountain of concrete to locate a weak spot, forcing Paterson back. I raised the pick bringing the sharp point down on the peak. A shard hit me. I put on protective goggles, and felt my eyeballs bulge under the strap. They steamed up, and the pick that had been next to me disappeared in the fog. I groped around for the pick, and someone laughed. Someone thought it was funny that I was groping around. I hated people laughing at me. It made my lip quiver and my feet stamp. It made me angry, and no one would want to make me angry. The last person to make me angry was called Saddam. Saddam called me Gromit, a cartoon dog, and then I stormed his palace, took down his photos, and put mine up. And now Saddam is no more. Executed. Ha! So long, Saddo. That showed him. And you too. You will all listen to ME because I am universal. I am big and clever.

I pulled the goggles off looking as mean as I could, and boy could I look mean.

“Hey! You laughing at me, punk?”

There were only three people who could have been laughing at me: Paterson, the madman with the broom, and the man on the mixer. But they were all looking the other way. I stuck a finger up at them.

“Fix you!”

That told them, in no uncertain terms, using the colourful language of the street so fashionable these days. I had to say, sweary stuff made me feel bigger and cleverer than ever. Putting the goggles on, I raised the pick high over my head, and brought it down hard on the concrete mountain. More shards flew past. There was increased laughter, and when I inspected the mountain, I saw I was making no impression whatsoever.

I lifted the pick again, taking it right back over my head, but it wouldn’t move. It was stuck. I turned round. The man off the mixer, coated from head-to-toe in cement, was holding the pick with one hand. The man was tall, and covered in flaking cement dust so he looked like a giant ghost. His eyes were red, and his lips were blue. He was a shocking example of the poor state of Britain’s workforce. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. There are plenty of foreigner chappies lined up to replace them for nothing.

The man prodded my chest with his finger.

“I’m over there on the mixer, and I’m seeing you chipping the concrete like a tiny, chirruping bird, and it’s making me weep. You’re not making any forward progress my friend.”

“You know, progress is in everybody’s interest. Progress is how we all shape our lives, our future’s, our children’s futures, our children’s, children’s, children’s futures.”

The man spun the pick on his finger, jammed the flat end under the concrete, and levered with one hand. The mountain toppled onto the creaking wheelbarrow. The man inspected the tip, and shook his head.

“You wasted your time chipping from the top. Always work from the base unless you want to take forever. Get yourself over to the dump. Jim Baird’s the name. Get rid of that mountain, and be quick about it.”

“And my name’s Bono Blair. I am here to take you away from all this alienating hard work, to show you that desk jobs can bring you inner calm and good manners. Arise boy, arise, and hug me like a bro’. I am your guide, your fuhrer, and you will follow me.”

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.

Check out Ian Duncan Smith’s satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out his Lulu Storefront, and his sensible blog.

concrete nasdaq construction scotland lab_rat bad_losers saddam gromit swearing workers britain progress fuhrer

Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.

… Tony arrives for his first full day testing concrete … but his path into the lab is blocked … the foreman, Breeze McKong has left a mountain of concrete at the door … the man in the combat jacket looms … Tony gets his retaliation in first … the journey into the wilderness continues …

Sorensen’s and the lack of fish didn’t concern me because I was so on a mission, a mission that was temporarily halted by a mountain of concrete that had formed in front of the lab door since yesterday, stopping me opening it. I suspected foul play.

Paterson caught up with me. He wanted to know why I’d rushed off and left him in the car.

“Wait for me in future, sir, and please stay out of trouble, sir.”

“Hey! Look. You know there’s no trouble I can’t fix, bud.”

But Paterson looked at the mountain.

“So Breeze McKong left some concrete outside your door. How are you going to get in the lab, sir?”

I looked up at the mountain peak.

“You know, just at the moment, I guess I’m not going to get in the lab, yah. This is my first test as ex-PM. It’s not going to be easy, but with God as my witness, I will give it all I’ve got.”

“It could take days to move, sir.”

I tried to push the mountain. I wasn’t going to let a six-ton pile of rock-hard concrete stop my progress. That’s not what I’d been brought up the hard way to do. The man in the combat jacket was staring at me.

The sharp point of a pick was what I needed to chip away the concrete, and the storeroom was the place to get it.

Setting off towards the storeroom with Paterson following, I passed the man in the combat jacket, my Mr. Sheep. More men in blue helmets filling diesel tanks and lighting cigarettes appeared. You know, being pretty smart, I wondered if the colour of the helmet was significant because Breeze McKong wore a white helmet, and white was different than blue, and he was in charge of them. I loved hierarchies.

Oh so tedious Paterson wanted to know where I was going.

“I’m going in. Keep me covered. I may be some time.”

I surveyed the scene with my superhuman ability to assess the situation. The cement mixer was being cranked into smoky life. Tools were being clattered against the wooden breakwater to remove dry concrete. They could be used as weapons.

The men stopped work and stared. I nodded at them to show I came in peace, but then I checked I hadn’t grown another head because they all stared, and no one nodded back. Being the ex-PM was going to be a burden in itself. I had to ingratiate myself to these people as soon as possible to show them that I came from ordinary humble beginnings similar to their own, and I came to lead them to suburban safety. I meant them no harm unless they failed to vote for me, and then I was going to be a wildly vindictive bully, who’d take away their only means of survival.

I climbed in the storeroom and saw rows of tools hanging on the walls. There was a long steel bar with a sharp point at one end. It was heavy enough, but no good for chipping away a mountain of concrete. What I needed was something I could swing—something that would break up the concrete with its own weight. Something symbolic, mace-like, a totem, something I could wield with upright, moral conviction.

Paterson stood at the storeroom door, looking round anxiously.

“Hurry up, sir.”

“Stay cool, pardner.”

There was a metallic ringing. The man who’d locked me in the lab yesterday was tapping his toecaps against the steel ledge and he didn’t look like a natural follower. I touched the peak of my baseball cap.

“You know, that’s kind of annoying, yah! Stop it.”

But he was in a bit of a broodie moodie. He raised the broom, and bayonet-charged, lunging with the handle, and growling like a dog. I grabbed the heavy bar and felt the power surge inside me. I was tall. I was strong. I wasn’t the poodle any longer. I swung the bar, knocking the broom out of the man’s hands and took the man out as well. I collected a pick from amongst the shovels, weighed it, and touched the sharp point. I stepped over the man and grabbed Paterson, who was cowering in the corner as usual with his hands over his head like some kind of baby. I took his shaking hand.

“Let us go, boy, and leave the worm to feed.”

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.

Check out Ian Duncan Smith’s satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out his Lulu Storefront, and his sensible blog.

concrete nasdaq construction scotland lab_rat combat_jacket retaliation testing_concrete foul_play workers britain progress moral_conviction

Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.

… Tony’s boss Aristotle Paterson drives him to the construction site … a grey factory looms … Paterson describes some sharp local practices … Tony finds things are getting uncomfortable…the journey into the wilderness continues…

I stretched my cramped back and shoulders as best I could. The bed had been too small. I had to eject Paterson to make more room. A smell filled Paterson’s car, and it was like, so unpleasant. Paterson tapped the cheap air-freshener and acrid pine-scented chemical struggled against the warm smell. Would I ever escape his filthy habits?

He looked in the rear-view mirror, jabbed the gear stick and braked hard for the airport site. I saw gulls vying for space on the air vent of a squat, but somehow enormous, grey, corrugated old sort of factory type place that reminded me of the world before I got down to business. Feathers hit the vent, and steam boiled out. The car swooped like one of the gulls. Apparently, the gulls went in the air vent, and then came out wearing a metal suit.

“There’s no fish round here, sir. You never see fish going in, sir, but you see the cans coming out, and they’re full of seagull.”

Apparently, Sorensen Marine Processors were the biggest seagull canneries round here, and they were passing it off as fish. Admirable stuff.

“The smell’s bad outside, but it’s far worse inside. Think yourself lucky you work on a building site, Mr. Tony, sir.”

Feeling lucky was my occupation. Easing my sore back, I accidentally let a build up of gas escape. A bubble exploded and mingled with the air freshener and the other smells. Hey! Well if you can’t beat ‘em.

I saw a gull fly through the scalding steam, shying away as if it heard me. There was a queue at a bus stop—the night shift going home, wearing Sorensen’s white-gulled logo on their rustic smocks, looking confused in sunlight, like sleepwalkers woken mid-excursion. Those poor souls were the real workers, the sort of fringe people I identified with. I had to mingle with those fringes if I wanted to be the man of the people. Better hairstyles were the way forward, and an optimistic attitude. You had to see those guys. They had the body language of ghosts.

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.

Check out Ian Duncan Smith’s satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out his Lulu Storefront, and his sensible blog.

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Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.

… Tony breaks out of his claustrophobic bed and breakfast to investigate the small seaside Scottish town of Ardrossan … he fights off a drunk … hears strange industrial noises … and discovers the beach … he proceeds bravely, but with caution … the continuing story of Tony Blair in the wilderness …

I saw the sign on the beach, but no one was firing anything, although there was some kind of equipment in the distance where the pebble peninsula curved round towards the fort. A tall, wire-meshed fence sealed it off with oochy-coochy barbed wire on top, and a so anti-everything no admittance sign.

Finding a gap in the wire, I looked round, ducked under the fence and set off across the slope, striding on refreshed legs. There were nets, buoys, paddles, lifejackets. I circled the equipment and then read a label on one of the lifejackets. It said, Property of the Fishermen-Keep Off. God, I was so clever. I worked it out instantly. It had to be fishing equipment, probably the ancient vestiges of that out-moded form of employment left behind by early, unsophisticated man. These were just the sort I’d be able to set free whether they wanted it or not. On the other hand, it might have just been a cover for shipping some weapons-grade plutonium.

But the chain rasped again so loudly it made my gold fillings ache. There was nothing there to make such a noise. It was as if it was coming up from the pebbles like an underground alarm, a most interesting proposition. I caught a whiff of something that smelled like trouble.

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years, the novel, ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

Check out my satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out my Lulu Storefront, and my blog.

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.

Tony “Bono” Blair is a bit confused. He believes he is the famed British Prime Minister of the same name, deposed after winning a third term. Things begin to look up for Tony when a letter arrives offering a position with McCreedie construction. Thinking he is taking over as CEO of a powerful NASDAQ company, Tony accepts the offer and travels to Scotland, hoping to meet the people, regain their trust, and use his new career as a springboard back into high office. The new career isn’t all Tony had hoped, and he finds himself building a cement runway at Ardrossan International Airport.

… Tony breaks out of his miserable bed and breakfast accommodation… he needs to go walkabout… to meet the people of the tiny Scottish coastal village of Ardrossan… to convert them to his brand of politics… it’s reality time… Tony confronts his satirical wilderness…

Across a small, neat square, full of parked cars, the door of a bar crashed against a wall, and a man staggered onto the street. The man turned and charged the door, but it was slammed in his face. He hammered the frosted glass. I sensed his alienation.

“And the same to you, too.”

A woman opened the door.

“Up yours, Sandy Donaldson. You’re barred from the Blue Bell forever.”

The woman slammed the door. There was obviously some local difference of opinion I could pour troubled oil onto. Maybe I could get some leverage here, some triangulation. The man leaned forward, put his hands on his head and laughed. Stepping into the road, he pulled at his hair and kicked a waste bin, scattering the contents, and then he looked up at me.

“What are you looking at, curly?”

He started coming at me, but I assumed the tree-in-a-storm stance, the position of passive dominance, and I chanted.

“Aweeeeyaoia.”

I circled. The man stopped and realising my obvious superiority and mastery of all things violent, he backed away. I kept up the pressure.

“Waaayeeeeowww.”

That deep, primeval sound sent him scurrying. I followed him between parked cars.

“Aweeeeyoweee.”

I followed him along a narrow road, past pebble-dashed bungalows, past gardens with pot herons and Scots guardsman plaques with Keep Off written on them, all the time keeping up the cry of the bald eagle. After the last front garden, the man climbed a grassy ridge at the back of the bar.

I climbed the bank too and breathed in, looking down on a small strip of shingle that separated Ardrossan from the sea. The man had gone. I’d chased his yellow belly hide out of town. I beat my chest and made Tarzan impressions. Tony one, mean-minds nil.

“Aeeyayeeeaayeee, me Blair. Tony Blair.”

The beach was covered with seaweed, faded coloured ropes and every shape and size of plastic carton ever created. Curling lines of debris shunted towards me, and it wasn’t a romantic proposition. No surfing wave was likely to end its three thousand-mile journey at my feet, and there wasn’t a snow-capped mountain for me to soar above in sight, although it looked okay for a spot of jet-skiing. But basically, you know, the place was just a big shit hole. At least the air was fresh and clear as the Austrian peaks, and the taxi driver was wrong about Ardrossan. There was no expansion. There was no money to be made. There was nothing but a tiny square, and pale beach road bungalows, and me yodelling the song of the free.

The sea nudged the shingle, and mended my frayed nerves. The truck, Freeman, Mrs. Harris, had all been too much in the hectic day of an ex-PM, and hey! Even pioneers at the last frontier needed to rest.
Looking up into the cold sky, I saw clouds multiplying. The end of summer was coming, and the sun was slipping out of sight for good, a bit like my cush CEO job in fact. A breeze claimed the bay, and then a faint metallic noise started like a distant heavy chain running against steel.

That was the noise I liked most.

As soon as I listened to the noise, it stopped, and that made me curious, bringing out my natural hunter’s inquisitive streak. I set phasers to stun and proceeded with new caution into the rogue state.

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years ISBN 1-4196-0573-9

Check out my satirical blog Hold It Up For Ridicule.

Check out my Lulu Storefront, and my blog.

This Blog Is

Dedicated To Me, Tony ‘Bono’ Blair.

Without Me, None Of This Could Have Been Possible.