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We arrived only an hour late for our interview thanks to us getting very confused at the ticket machines in the underground. We turned up and were ushered into the Prime Ministers private sanctum and handed a sheet of paper with which to conduct our interview. The room we entered into was a plush affair covered with lots of red silk and things like that. There was also a big jacuzzi in the centre of the room in which Mr Blair was relaxing with a female who looked nothing like Cheri Blair. Alas I am not allowed to tell you this as the first instruction on the interview notes say that I must describe the inner sanctum as a plain room, with no decoration at all, other than a small wooden desk which Tony will sit behind. He sits looking humble, the thought of the trust the British people have given him weighing heavy on his mind. He also looked tired and stressed, the sort of stress only brought on by having the weight of the world on your shoulders and knowing you're the only person that can put them to rights. So that's that sorted then.
After the initial pleasantries (Tony looked at me with distaste, I looked around nervously) we got on with the interview, the first question I was to ask him was "Tony, how does it feel to be so great?"
Tony seemed to consider this for a moment, obviously it's not a question he gets asked very often. "Well, it's very nice of you to say that. And obviously while I'm Pleased as Punch to be described as such a thing. It is only because of Many Years of Tory Misrule that you are considering me, a Simple Man who Tries To Care, a great man. When all I do, indeed, all I've ever wanted to do is Find Simple Solutions to Simple Problems."
I was a little confused by the way he was managing to capitalize his words just by speaking but I decided not to worry about it and move on to the next in my list of hard hitting questions that Alistair Campbell had given me. "So", I asked, my eyes glinting with menace as I asked this ever so tough question, "Doesn't the fact that you're so great mean that you have problems relating to normal people? I mean. Personally I find it hard to remain in your presence without bowing down and grovelling on the ground, so how can other people cope?"
Tony simply smiled and filled the whole place with a sense of well-being (it says here) and said "Well, it's nice of you to think in those terms about me. But I am simply a Man of The People. I am only their Servant, and I will do what I can to help. The trappings of power and the opportunity to espouse my simple, but representative views to the rest of the country are not what I'm interested in. Only the chance to Try and make Things Better."
Hmmm. I was a little bit bored by this line of questioning now. Particularly as most of the other questions appeared to be going along the same lines as the first two and also because the answers I've reported here weren't actually what he said, they came from the sheet I was given. Tony was really answering "Who's this fucker.", "Fuck off.", "get to Fuck.", and, most popularly of all, "Away and shite.". As it's not very nice to be abused by the Prime Minister, or maybe it is, if you're that way inclined, we decided to change tact and start asking some real questions.
"So Tony", I said, spitting out the word Tony as if it was some peanut butter that had fallen into my mouth, "If that's your real name, perhaps you'd like to explain to us exactly why you are reclining in that there jacuzzi being rubbed in a suspicious manner by a woman who, if I know my daytime television correctly (and I believe I do) is none other than Judy Finnegan from TV's This Morning with Richard and Judy!?"
I stopped and wiped the phlegm which had formed around my mouth. Tony just looked at me in an odd manner, then suddenly he lunged forward, straight out of the Jacuzzi, a sight more hideous I have yet to imagine, particularly as he had not yet learnt the joys of wearing some sort of lower garment while in the water. I recoiled back in shock and fear, but he wasn't diving towards me. Instead he went towards a solid gold bust of Margaret Thatcher (which should maybe have been mentioned earlier) and pulled the top of it's head off. Tony turned towards me and with what I presume was an evil grin upon his face, I can't say for certain as my attention was drawn, in much the same way that road accidents are fascinating, towards his honourable member, and said "You'll be sorry you did that scum boy" and then he laughed, quite scarily it has to be said.
He bashed his hand down hard upon the button that was concealed inside the bust and suddenly all hell broke loose, alarms started wailing, lights started flashing (in sympathy with the PM perhaps), shutters started shutting and badgers started badgering the PM about some amendments to the Countryside act, but now wasn't the time, nor the place so they were suitably ignored. I turned around in a panic and ran towards the door, but it had a huge metal door across it which certainly wasn't there when I came in. An electronic voice started shouting over the cacophony "Disbeliever in room, subversive question being asked. All security operatives to the Throne room, repeat. All security operatives to the throne room", the message then started to repeat itself and generally make the ambience even more cluttered than it was already.
Tony looked satisfied with the noise and turned towards me, his eyes glowing red, which did, it has to be said, scare me slightly. "You Fool!" he said in a slightly metallic sounding voice, "Did you really think you'd get away with asking me those sorts of questions? People like you just... disappear. Do you remember John Leslie?"
I paused, the name did seem familiar, I scoured my brain, heading way back into the dawn of time. Suddenly it struck me, "Thingie!" I shouted out loud, "Tall scottish bloke, used to present Blue Peter, yeah. I remember him now, he used to be on every bloody thing, whatever happened to him?", I ask, not realizing the sheer stupidity of the question.
"Oh", said Tony with a smile playing across his lips, "He decided to become an investigative reporter, thought he'd come snooping round here asking a few pertinent questions. He soon learnt who the boss was though. I sent him to a fate worse than death"
I looked suitably shocked. "You don't mean...?"
"Oh yes. 5 year exclusive contract with Challenge TV, you won't be seeing much of him again. Now, as for you, what shall we do with you..." Tony came over and started circling me slowly, looking me up and down, "Perhaps we should... nah, too tall.", he pauses again and considers, "No, I don't think we need to do anything too subtle with you. As someone who writes for an internet based thing, you probably spend far too much time on the computers, therefore we can get rid of you quite easily and no-one'll miss you. What fun."
And with that he suddenly reached behind himself and ripped his head off from the back, dropping the lifeless rubber skin on the floor, he revealed his true self, a metal head were his real head was, with clanking jaws and glowing red eyes and a general evil look about his presence. Can't imagine why that could be. He came towards me jaws going up and down like there was no tomorrow, I don't mind telling you, I was rather scared at this point and had managed to disgrace myself in my trousers. Not good as this made running away rather harder.
As Tony's metallic face came up to try and bite me in two I was able to look down into the gaping maw and see what made him tick, what was controlling this wicked parody of democracy, nay humanity even. What I saw made me sick to the very soul of my being. Inside, operating him by levers, was an incredibly tiny Margaret Thatcher. When she saw me looking down upon her she looked up and started waving her tiny fist towards me. "You fool!" she said in a tinny voice, "This is my time now, as it's always been. Thatcherism is all there will ever be. You will die to further my cause." And with that the clanking began anew. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, I was no longer in the jaws field of biting. I had gotten supremely worried by the latest turn of events and was given the push I needed. The push to run straight through a solid metal door, leaving only a cartoon style cut-out of my body shape to show were I went. I then ran all the way back to the golden spires of Flumcake towers where I have managed to hide in safety away from the strange wheels of democracy.
I'll tell you one thing though, I'm definitely not voting Labour.
