Aged just forty six, young for a Prime Minister by British standards, Good was a handsome man, his good looks tarnished only by the smarminess that manifests itself in the features of most politicians.
In much the same way that Hugh Pugh found a safe haven behind his Junior Ministers, Phil Good took refuge behind his Cabinet Ministers. As most of his Cabinet Ministers adopted Pugh’s principal of hiding behind his Junior Ministers it had the effect of erecting yet another barrier between The Prime Minister and those who sought to take him to task over his many shortcomings. He was as an Army Chief of Staff in time of war, directing operations from the safety of HQ whilst his infantry took the bullets at the Front.
A political commentator had once suggested that Good should have a plaque on his desk which read ‘The buck never gets here’. Instead he had a photograph of his family. Like former Labour Prime Minister Tony Blair, Good had a wife, Fleur, who was also a lawyer, and with whom he’d had four children. However the similarity to Blair ended there as Good’s children were all girls and his wife was halfway presentable.
On leaving Oxford, with a First in Law and a 2.1 in Political Science, Good had gone directly into politics as a researcher at Labour Party Headquarters. The only thing he had researched was how to get ahead in politics without having to do very much. His researches had informed him that by far the best way to achieve this was by becoming a spin doctor. So for the next two years he had worshipped at the temple of Blair’s Director of Communications and Strategy, Alastair Campbell. After twelve months of finding out exactly how Campbell went about the business of saying one thing whilst meaning another, then putting it into practice, the only person who didn’t dislike him was his mother. After a further six months of soaking up Campbell’s poison even his mother didn’t like him. And after the final six months he had become such an absolute twat that he had no difficulty spinning himself into a job as Personal Adviser and Chief of Staff to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Being privy to all the financial changes the Chancellor of the Exchequer necessarily has to implement in the course of ruining the country’s finances had made Good a millionaire by the time he was thirty, at which point he became a Member of Parliament in the safe seat of Bletchwich North. Eight years and two Parliaments on saw him as Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer. Two years later he was elected Leader.
When Pugh had requested a meeting with him Good had groaned inwardly, his usual reaction when the Transport Minister wanted to see him. It was bad enough seeing him at Cabinet meetings. Pugh would be on the make, he knew; he had requested the meeting to report back personally on vote-winning ideas, but there would be a hidden agenda, there always was with Pugh. He would probably be bringing up the peerage thing again, despite his being kicked back the other three times he’d asked to be elevated to the Upper House. (The second time he’d brought it up Good had toyed with the idea of acceding to his request on the condition that he be known as Lord Lout of Loudmouth, but had decided that even that wasn’t compensation enough for the dire prospect of Pugh swanning around Westminster dressed in ermine.)
In the event it turned out to be something even more impossible than a peerage that Pugh was seeking. Good was already in a bad mood, having just spent over an hour on the phone in an effort to patch up Britain’s special relationship with the United States. The Deputy Prime Minister, Dick Balding, had been quoted in the newspapers as saying that US President Richard Sole was not only an R Sole in name but an R Sole in nature and it hadn’t gone down very well with the President. Good’s mood hadn’t been improved on hearing Pugh’s opening gambit.
“Are you quite mad?” said Good, in reply to it. “Introduce a levy on single car occupancy? Fuck me, Hugh, I asked you to come up with vote-catching ideas and you come here with an idea that’s going to lose us the vote of every car driver in the country!”
Pugh remained calm. He had expected such a reaction. “I think we can safely say we’ll lose the next election, Phil.”
“We will if we implement stupid fucking ideas like that!”
“We’ll lose anyway.”
“So? That doesn’t mean we have to give it away!”
Pugh was aware that the hand of cards he had been dealt was not one that could be played close to the chest. It was the sort that had to be laid on the table, face up, out in the open, so it could be seen for what it was. He laid it out. “Losing the election will mean that people like you and me will have to look to the future, money-wise, Phil. Money-wise,” he repeated, emphasising the word ‘money’.
There was no need for the emphasis. Good’s ears had pricked at the mention of his favourite word, as Pugh knew it would. “Money wise? What do you mean, money-wise?”
“Simply that you and me are in a position to make a lot of money, Phil. Serious money. If we go about it the right way.”
The Prime Minister doubted very much if Pugh had the brains to pick his nose, let alone come up with something likely to make a lot of money. However he was the last man in the world to dismiss a potential money-making opportunity out of hand. He sat back in his chair, formed his hands into a church steeple, then cocked his head to one side in the way that Fleur had told him he looked at his most impressive. “Go on, I’m listening.”
“As I’ve already said, we implement a levy on single car occupancy. A big one. Very big, punitive, a grand a day, of that order; something big enough to make everybody but merchant bankers and footballers think twice before driving their car unless there’s somebody sat in it with them.” He paused for a moment before going on. “And once we’ve done that, what’s going to happen?”
“Tell me.”
“Some car drivers who don’t want to pay the levy, or can’t afford to pay it, are going to set up car-sharing schemes with people travelling to the same places. But a lot of them aren’t going to bother. A lot of them are going to get round the problem by putting an artificial passenger in the seat alongside them, to fool the police into thinking they’ve got somebody travelling with them.”
“An artificial passenger?”
“Something that looks like a passenger.”
Good thought about it for a moment. “You reckon?”
“I reckon.”
So did Good. He knew very little about the ordinary man in the street, or cared to, but one thing he did know was that he would try anything to avoid paying a penny more in taxes than absolutely necessary.
“They’ll be using all sorts,” Pugh went on. “Tailor’s dummies; models from department store windows, what do they call them, mannequins; figures they’ve made themselves, like they make Guy Fawkes; cardboard cut-outs.” He paused for effect. “And inflatable rubber women.”
Good nodded. “Yes. Well why wouldn’t they.”
The only card in his hand that Pugh hadn’t yet played was the joker. He played it now. “And I own the biggest inflatable rubber woman factory in the country. For artificial passenger, read inflatable rubber woman.” Before continuing he took a moment to fondly recall travelling all the way from Ramsbottom to London with Willing Wilma in the passenger seat beside him, without so much as a single person batting an eyelid. “I’ve got one million of them at fifty quid a throw stock-piled and ready to go at the drop of a bit of legislation. I’m proposing to cut you in for twenty per cent of the profits.” He sat back with a smug smile, confident that Good would go along with the idea.
“Forty.”
Pugh winced, but only for the sake of appearances. He had been expecting Good to demand thirty per cent, in which case he would have settled for twenty-five. Now he himself would have to offer thirty and the Prime Minister would go to thirty five, which he’d have to accept. No matter, after his accountant had done a bit of creative accounting Good wouldn’t even be getting twenty five, he’d be getting twenty if he was lucky. Good of course was well aware of this, but no matter, the ritual had to be acted out, the game had to be played, both men had to be seen to be unwilling to give up too much ground.
“Thirty, said Pugh.”
“Thirty five.”
“Done.”
“Done,” smiled Good, offering his hand.
Pugh now exercised a word of caution. He had a shrewd idea what the Prime Minister’s reaction would be, but the point still had to be made nevertheless. “The Cabinet won’t like it.”
“The Cabinet,” said Good, “can kiss my starboard bollock.”
Pugh smiled to himself. He knew his man.
****
CHAPTER TWENTY
Two days later, when Pugh had revealed to Wainwright his plan to sell the million inflatable rubber women as artificial car passengers, the factory manager had immediately seen a snag. “But they’re all contaminated, Mr Pugh,” he said, scarcely able to credit Pugh’s intentions.
Pugh and Wainwright were facing each other across the latter’s desk. However it was Pugh who was seated in Wainwright’s chair, having commandeered the manager’s office on discovering it was An Hour In Bed’s largest, and relegating the factory manager to a much smaller one next to the ladies toilets. “Where you’ll be able to keep an eye on the women, they probably spend too much time gossiping in there anyway,” Pugh had said.
Pugh couldn’t see the reason for Wainwright’s concern. “So?”
“Well you can’t sell them if they’re contaminated.”
“Why not?”
“Well....I mean they’re contaminated.”
“So they’re contaminated? People are going to use them as artificial passengers, not inflatable rubber women. The sales manager didn’t raise any objections when I told him what we were doing. He said he looked forward to the new challenge.”
“Yes well he would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well Mallory would sell horseshit as tobacco if he thought he could get away with it.”
Pugh glared at him. “It sounds like he’s sold you some horseshit if you ask me, because you’ve got horseshit to spare the amount of it you’re giving me.”
“Well I’m sorry, Mr Pugh, but I’m very uncomfortable with the idea. And for quite a few reasons.”
There wasn’t a single reason in the world that would make Pugh change his mind. He was interested to know what Wainwright’s objections might be, nevertheless. “Such as?”
“Well for one, although we’ll be selling the inflatable rubber women as artificial passengers they’ll still really be inflatable rubber woman. And even though a man might have bought one to use as an artificial passenger, once he’s realised it’s an inflatable rubber woman he might....well, use it for the purpose for which it was originally intended.”
“Well in that case he’s got two for the price of one, hasn’t he. Anyway that’s beside....”
“But he might contaminate himself, Mr Pugh. Well he will contaminate himself, no doubt about it, if he....”
Pugh cut in impatiently. “Well that’s his bloody lookout isn’t it. He bought it to put it in the passenger seat of his car, not to fuck it whenever he got a bit randy; serve the bugger right if he does get contaminated.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d seen somebody who’d been contaminated, Mr Pugh, if you don’t mind me saying so. They come out in this horrible....”
Pugh snapped. “I am somebody who’s been contaminated. Thanks to the twat who put one in my car! I’ve still got Calamine fucking lotion in my earholes and up the crack of my ar....” He stopped and changed tack before he forgot. “That’s another thing. I want you to find out who did it and sack the bastard.”
“Did what?”
“Put that fucking rubber woman in my BMW.”
“Did they?”
“I’ve just said so haven’t I. And if I ever find out who it was....!” Pugh made a strangling motion.
“But....I mean how did you get contaminated?”
“Trying to get the fucking thing out of my BMW.”
Something occurred to Wainwright. “Oh, that reminds me, on the subject of contamination, we’ve got problems in the Fruit Gum Department.”
Pugh looked puzzled. “Fruit Gum Department?”
“Yes.”
“I thought this was an inflatable rubber woman factory? What are we doing making fruit gums?”
“We aren’t.” Wainwright explained. “I’m talking about the Realistic Vaginal Juices Department. Mr Plimmer told me you’d prefer us to refer to it as the Fruit Gums Department in future.”
Pugh treated Wainwright to another glare. “I’d prefer you to stop fucking about and start earning your fucking keep, that’s what I’d prefer, Wainwright!” He took a second or two to calm down before carrying on. “And you can start by concentrating on locating a million sets of clothes.”
“What?”
“Are you deaf as well as dense? Clothes. We can’t flog them as artificial passengers as they are, can we, dressed in fuck all but a bra and knickers. That might be the way they ride about in cars in Ramsbottom, they probably do from what I’ve seen of them, but it isn’t the way they dress in the rest of the country. And keep out of Marks & Spencers and Debenhams, I’m not made of money, get stuff from charity shops, Oxfam and Scoop and that lot, they’ll be plenty good enough.”
Mention of charity shops reminded Pugh of the time he’d sat in the Commons next to a lady front bencher who was renowned for her habitual use of such establishments. “And try to get stuff that doesn’t smell of mothballs. You’ve got a budget of seven pounds a head, you should be able to fix them up with a tee shirt and a skirt or a pair of jeans for that. And some jackets and trousers, we don’t want them all looking the same do we. Get them a hat if there’s any change.” A thought struck him. “Is there any difference between men’s tee shirts and women’s?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Pugh stroked his chin in thought. “I’m sure Lorelei once told me that women’s tee shirts had extra room built in them for their knockers. Anyway, make sure all the tee-shirts have enough room in them for women as well as men.”
“Men? But all the inflatable rubber women are women.”
“Now they are. But we’re going to have to make half of them into inflatable rubber men.”
“Why?”
“Because if every car in the country has a woman in the passenger seat the police are going to get a bit suspicious, aren’t they. I know most of them are as thick as a navvy’s butty but they’re not all stupid.”
“And how do you propose we are going to turn them into men?”
“That’s my problem.”
It wasn’t, it was Arbuckle’s.
When Arbuckle had arrived at an Hour In Bed Wainwright had decided that he would profit most from his four weeks with the firm by spending a couple of days working in each of its fourteen departments, with maybe an odd day in the office. Now in his third week Arbuckle was in his ninth department, the Forming Department, whose function was to extrude the rubber solution into a basic inflatable rubber woman shape.
Pugh had selected this department as the one most likely to come up with an idea for turning half of the one million inflatable rubber women into inflatable rubber men. The task had proved to be quite beyond the talents of the foreman of the department, Mr Greaves, and any of his operatives, so Greaves had delegated the job to Arbuckle in the hope that the benefit of the higher education to which Arbuckle had been exposed would enable him to come up with something.
Before charging the Forming Department with the job Pugh had attempted the conversion himself. The head had been comparatively easy. He simply removed the rubber woman’s wig, turning her into an instant skinhead, and added a false moustache and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A selection of male wigs in various styles and colours would complete the conversion, in addition to offering customer choice.
Disguising the inflatable rubber women’s breasts hadn’t been as easy. His first idea had been to let some of the air out, thus making them smaller and flatter. However by the time he’d let out enough air to make
them significantly smaller the inflatable rubber woman was only about four feet tall and resembled Gollum out of The Lord of the Rings after a night on the mead.
Next he tried to pull the breasts off. However they were stuck on too securely, and when he did eventually manage to pull one off, after much vigorous tugging, it left a breast-sized hole behind. He decided that perhaps gentle persuasion might be a better way of achieving his objective, to coax rather than pull the breasts off. After five minutes coaxing, and with no sign of the breasts coming off, he gave it up as a bad job. But by then, and despite his abhorrence of inflatable rubber women, the gentle tugging of Comely Caroline’s breasts had given him an erection. Not wanting to waste it he thought to proposition one of the factory girls – a couple of them weren’t too bad if you didn’t look at them too closely – but decided against it when he realised that if he were to start fucking the staff physically it would make it that much more difficult to fuck them verbally, if and when it became necessary. At this point he passed on the task to the Forming Department, and ultimately to Arbuckle.
After spending the morning wrestling with the problem, much of it wrestling with one of the inflatable rubber woman he’d inadvertently tied himself to whilst attempting to tie a rope round her breasts in the fond hope it would flatten them sufficiently enough for her to pass as a man, Arbuckle thought he had the answer. Rather than rope, why not a sports bra two sizes too small. Two 40DD breasts squeezed into a 36A bra. With any luck, and with a sweater on, it would look like a man with a big chest.
He reported back to Greaves. Greaves was not impressed and said if that was the best he could come up with that Mr Pugh would be very disappointed with him, and if Mr Pugh was very disappointed he might very well cancel Arbuckle’s stay with An Hour In Bed. At the time Arbuckle had never heard of Pugh, and asked Greaves who he was. Greaves informed him he was the new boss, a Minister in the Government no less.
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