Careful Who You Vote For

We all know and love Larry the cat, but as my little story shows, beware the whimsy of the British public being taken seriously:

Deborah Tubman clutched the document in both hands at her fingertips, scurrying down the hallway. She was soon caught up by her colleague, Tom Pitcher, who was no doubt ready with a barrage of questions about how in god’s name they were going to get the new legislature signed.

“Tubs! Tubs!?” he silently shouted at her. She stretched her head back to look at him, still on the move.

“Don’t call me Tubs, idiot, we’re at work.” She growled and turned her head forward again.

“Sorry, Debbie! Oh god, what are we going to do?” He was practically crawling behind her now going out of his mind.

“I don’t know, shit! I don’t know. This is so important, and I have to try and get it signed off by that animal!”

“This cannot last, is this how it’s going to be forever? For every piece of legislation?”

“Not necessarily forever. At least until the next election.”

“Oh yeah? And what, he gets voted in again? Or we get the same type of Prime Minister each and every time? This country has lost its mind, it’s a joke!”

Debbie stopped dead at her destination and he almost slammed into her. He shot up straight and stared at the door over her shoulder. Debbie turned, the document trembling before him, the full strain and stress of the matter displayed on her face. “I’m scared to go in. Come in with me Tom.”

“What? With that beast, are you kidding, no way!” Tom spat.

“Please, please, look he’s being restrained now, he’s too much of a liability not to be.”

“He’s still terrifying.”

“I know, but look this is the way it’s going to be from now on and even you are going to have to face him on occasion, so please, just help me out yeah?”

He could see the sincere dread in her eyes and so he nodded and gestured towards the door. She smiled, the terror still inflating her pupils, but turned to face her fear. She knocked on the door and a distant voice beckoned her in.

As the door cracked open, she could tell it was darker inside than in the hallway and a pungent waft came through. She stifled a cough and kept her head down as she entered; a nervous Tom close behind. It turned out the only light was coming through a slim gap in the curtains, dust floating and barely illuminating anything – except of course, him. He sat behind his desk, fat, hairy and larger than life. He was focused on a stick in his hand, not alerted to the two bodies that had entered the room. His assistant could be seen in the shadows close by, hands behind his back and stood to attention. The Prime Minister seemed calm and engrossed in his stick, surveying it closely and attentively. Any sounds that came out of him shook Debbie and Tom, but the restraints were visible offering them some sort of reassurance. The assistant held the chain clasped to a metal bar around the Prime Minister’s neck, which disappeared behind the assistant joined to a long, metal pole. They’d seen his assistant handle the Prime Minister this way before: stoic, but ready for action should things get lively.

Then, slowly out of the shadows to their right appeared the small, greying, bespectacled Deputy Prime Minister Harold Bunkle. Pathetic as ever, he quietly approached them.

“Is that the revised legislation on funding for zoos?”

Debbie took a quick breath. “Yes, it’s, um, it’s ready to be signed.”

Harold was a mangey old coot: loyal, defiant and respectable of his boss even under these outrageous circumstances, but at the same time a fake. His phony obedience and respect for his boss was merely a show. The truth was that Harold had been cast aside. It should have been him in that seat, signing documentation, commanding a room, but he was now reduced to the role of a mouthpiece. Nothing he did would have the same impact as the true elected leader, so now all he had left was a malicious front, a way to belittle those who had denied him.

“Well, go on woman, hand them over.”

Debbie paused for a moment a little confused as to who he was talking about, then pointed the documents in Harold’s direction. “No! Not me, the Prime Minister of course!” He enjoyed this she thought. He knew interacting with the Prime Minister was no cup of tea, not even for him, but he wanted her to be scared. She managed to fake a smile and return the documents back to her chest, refocusing her eyes on the giant being sat at his desk. Slowly and surely, she made her way towards him, her heart pounding so hard she thought she might pass out.

“Mr Prime Minister.” It was a high octave squeak. “I-I have the new, revised legislation on funding for zoos, ready for you to, ahem, sign.”

Still entranced by his stick, the Prime Minister was silent.

“He hasn’t got a pen, anyone have a pen?” Harold hissed.

“Er, yes, yes I do.” Tom interjected, fishing his ballpoint from the inside of his suit jacket.

“Well, hurry up, hurry up.” Harold pushed, gesturing for Tom to hand it over.

Tom nodded and veered closer to the desk, stretching out, retracting, then stretching out his arm to the edge of the desk, flicking it a little as it rolled back, as if trying to escape. Debbie placed the document down next to the pen and took a tiny step backwards.

“What are you doing woman?” Harold once again hissed. “You can’t just leave it there, put it in front of him.”

Debbie turned to look at Harold as if he was joking, only he was dead serious.

“Didn’t you hear me? How’s he going to sign it if he doesn’t have it in front of him? Honestly, I don’t know how you made it into parliament!”

Debbie was seething, but she had to be obedient. She tried settling her heart rate and breathing, closed her eyes and opened them again slowly, and took the document in one hand and the pen in the other. Trembling, she leaned forward and slid the paper in front of the Prime Minister, with the pen close by.

“For goodness sake, put it in his hand!” Harold insisted.

She turned to look at him with a perilous look. He couldn’t be serious? But he was. His face was scrunched up and he looked as if steam were ready to pop out of his ears. Debbie looked back at the Prime Minister who had his hands clutching his stick. She cautiously picked up the pen, uncertain how to place it in his grip.

“Mr Prime Minister.” She began, not quite believing she was trying to communicate with him. “Please, if you would…?”

He looked around him, then caught sight of the pen in her hand. His right hand released from the stick, but remained in midair. This was her opportunity, so she gradually hovered it into his open palm, settling it down in his hairy hand, waiting for him to grip ahold. He looked down at his hand with the pen upon it and stared. Suddenly, his fingers clasped around it. Unbelievable! She thought to herself. He’s actually holding the pen! She felt elated, like she’d mastered her fears, like she’d tamed the beast, like she’d –

“Oh god!” Debbie screamed.

The Prime Minister’s mood had changed in an instant and she had no time to react. He had raised the hand with the pen in the air, released his fingers allowing it to drop and let his clawed hand come down gashing at Debbie’s face. As her scream dissolved, he stood up and growled, ready to launch upon her causing further damage. Debbie was on the floor now, covering her wounded cheek, blood seeping through, as she screamed further with hyperventilation. Tom had rushed to her aid, tucking his arms under her armpits and dragging her away. The Prime Minister was being pulled back by his chain wielding assistant who shouted: “Down! Down!!”

Commotion filled the room, but Harold was furious.

“What is the matter with you woman? Show some fucking respect! That’s your leader!”

Tom pulled one arm out from under Debbie and reached for the door handle. The Prime Minister was still being tamed, as Tom dragged a still screaming, bloodied Debbie away, Harold continuing to berate her, as the door shut and cut them off.

Some might say the situation was so beyond absurd, ask why the people of Britain were accepting such behavior from their leader. The truth was that the country had made their decision, a vote, and that vote was implemented. The British public had spoken and now their own Prime Minister, the final word on decision making, the ruler of their country, was a bear.

Many adjustments had to be made, for instance, the constant presence of a keeper. Such a ferocious being was, after all, an animal. He couldn’t talk, understand his people’s language, had to wear made to measure suits the size of several humans, accessorized by chains. Yet those under his ruling had no choice, but to treat him like any other Prime Minister before him. What started out as a gimmick, a silly suggestion by trolling internet users, turned into a serious campaign for a change in leadership of a country thought to be stuck in a cycle of out dated laws and standards, run by a generation of ‘Harolds’ unwilling to think outside the box, or take chances. Prime Minister bear was meant to challenge the country, bring in new ways of thinking and to create a new era. This was the decision and it was to be respected.