Once again, Parliament has been targeted by protesters. Now it is time for the MPs to strike back.
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BEHIND THE double doors at the public entrance of the Palace of Westminster, the Prime Minister surveyed his troops. A good turnout, he decided. Cross-party. Plenty of placards. To one side of him stood John Prescott, cracking his knuckles. To the other stood David Blunkett, clutching the lead of a snarling labrador.
“Where’s Gordon?” asked the Prime Minister.
“Sulking,” said Prescott. “Upstairs. But that don’t matter. Alan’s here.”
Alan Milburn leant forwards, hands clasped. “Actually, I’m just passing. I’m avoiding this demonstration to devote some time to my family.”
The PM shrugged. He could do without Alan. Most of his Cabinet were here, and plenty of backbenchers. Jack Straw and Geoff Hoon both had pink plastic whistles. Charlie Kennedy’s Liberal Democrats were in orange vests, acting as stewards. Michael Howard led a grim delegation from the Opposition, several of whom were in tweeds and hunting pinks. They probably assumed that was what people always wore on demonstrations, the PM mused. Rather sweet, really.
“My Honourable Friends,” he called. The crowd fell silent. “This is not a time for soundbites. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. Within moments, we MPs shall be outside, demonstrating for our right to live a life free of demonstrations. What do we want?”
“NO MORE DEMONSTRATIONS!” screamed the MPs.
“When do we want it?”
“JUST AS SOON AS THIS ONE HAS FINISHED!”
Outside, in Parliament Square, the mood quickly changed. A crowd had gathered and had begun to boo. And there was something strange about the police…
“What’s wrong with them?” wailed Geoff Hoon. “Why aren’t they in tailcoats? Where are their swords?”
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“Riot police,” said the PM. “Real police. Not like our lot in there. Onwards!”
“I’m behind you all the way, Prime Minister!” yelled Robin Cook, before turning tail and fleeing back to the House.
Michael Howard followed him. “Although I was entirely in favour of this operation from the outset,” he called back, amid the boos, “I have to criticise the manner in which it is being carried out.”
“Wimps,” snarled John Prescott, and reached into his bag to withdraw a handful of eggs. “I’m going to lob them into the crowd,” he explained. “Hopefully some fat Welsh farmer will punch me in the face. Oi, Tone. Is that your mobile?”
The PM checked. “Text message,” he said. “It’s from Her Majesty. Damn. She was going to put on her crown and scale the front wall of Burger King in support of our cause. But she’s pulling out. Where can we find another climber? If only I hadn’t sent Peter to Brussels.”
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“I suppose I could give it a shot,” said Alan Milburn, sidling up.
“For the good of the party.”
The PM blinked at him. “But weren’t you devoting some time to your family?”
Milburn looked indignant. “I just did. I’ve been gone almost five minutes. Now where can I find some crampons?”