zaubra: (white green eyes)
[personal profile] zaubra
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: How to Curry Favour with Your Prime Minister, in Nine Easy Lessons
Ship(s): David Cameron/Samantha Cameron, David Cameron/his Cabinet
Word Count: 1,313
Rating: PG
Summary: David's planning a reshuffle. His Cabinet has all sorts of ideas about how to persuade him otherwise. Can also be found here at the meme.
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.



How to Curry Favour with Your Prime Minister, in Nine Easy Lessons

It’s a beautiful card, David has to admit. It has obviously been chosen by someone with taste and refinement – or someone with the money to buy taste and refinement. The inscription, however, is a bit odd: “Redeem me for six free dancing lessons.”

Sam laughs and teases him about his imminent betrayal for a man who can dance the lambada.

David just sighs. His to-do list for the week is already long enough, what with figuring out some way to justify keeping Jeremy in post in the looming reshuffle. Now he also has to draw up a gentle and firm refusal to Jeremy’s offer, like a Regency maiden with a dance card.

The things they don’t tell you on your first day...

~//~

David should have known that a week that started with his Culture Secretary offering to teach him to tango could hardly be a normal week.

But, dear readers, he had no idea just how strange it was going to get...

~//~

“And why would I want a personalised video?” David asks, bewildered.

Andrew smiles. It looks somehow wrong on his face. “I’m told that my personal message that was distributed to hospitals puts the patients to sleep. If I do a bedtime story, you could use it on nights when your children didn’t want to go to sleep.”

David actually considers this for a moment, before spotting a flaw in the plan. “Didn’t this same hospital message also inspire frustration and bedpan-throwing rage in other patients?”

“Well, there is that,” Andrew allows. “But those patients were probably Labour. Or Greens.”

“Thanks,” David says, “but no.”

~//~

There is a pair of kitten heels on his desk.

“Sam?” David hazards, uncertainly. He checks under the desk. No Sam.

“No, those are from me,” Theresa says, from the shadows by the fireplace.

David manages not to jump out of his skin, but only just. “I think Sam does her own shoe shopping,” he says, politely, “although it was kind of you to offer.”

“Oh, those aren’t for Sam,” Theresa says, steepling her fingers under her chin. “Those are to help you deal with the country’s problems.”

David looks at them again. “Are they magical kitten heels?”

Theresa laughs, a dry sound. “Walk around in heels for ten minutes a day, Prime Minister, and I think you’ll find that the country’s problems seem somehow easier in comparison.”

It’s a thought. Still... “No, thank you,” David says. The last thing he needs is a broken ankle.

~//~

It’s a beautiful scrapbook. David turns over the pages, and can see that hours of work have gone into the painstaking descriptions, the beautiful pictures, and the baffling rating system.

“This is a work of art,” he tells its proud owner.

“You’ll love it,” Eric says, patting it like a fond father might. “It’s a unique and invaluable resource.”

David can see that it must be. “It’s just,” he says regretfully, “that I eat most of my meals here in Downing Street, or at the Commons. I’m afraid I wouldn’t get very much use out of an exhaustive and personalised map of London’s restaurants.”

Eric’s face falls momentarily, but when David hands his scrapbook back to him, he hugs it to his chest. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he says cheerfully. “Especially if Sam goes on a health food kick.”

“Will do,” David says, heroically trying to banish the image of a particularly delectable steak.

~//~

There is a naked Education Secretary bent over his desk.

“I thought you might like some stress relief?” Michael says, brightly.

David sighs, and breaks the switch over his knee. “Put your clothes back on.”

~//~

“National anthems,” David repeats.

William nods. “What better way to show that you are in touch with ordinary Britons than by learning the Welsh, Scottish, and Irish anthems?”

“Do the Northern Irish even have an anthem?” David asks. “And is Scotland’s Flower of Scotland or Scotland the Brave?”

“There may be a few small problems with this proposal,” William admits. “But it worked for me.”

David sets the papers down on his desk. Danny Boy peeks out at him from the bottom of the pile, along with God Save the Queen. Whoever thought he needed to learn the lyrics to God Save the Queen is an idiot.

William’s face is studiously bland.

~//~

His desk is buried in chocolate coins. David blinks, blinks again, and then calls for George.

“I thought you might want some chocolate,” George says, stealing one and popping it into his mouth.

David rubs at his temples. “First, your job is in no danger. Second, I’m trying to watch my weight. Third, I could hardly take them away from you.”

“Suit yourself,” George says, looking quite unimpressed and stealing four more.

~//~

David thinks Francis Maude might have been intending to offer sexual favours.

He only thinks, because his brain shut down at the possibility.

Somehow, though, he must have told Francis no.

Surely.

(The ‘anonymous’ love letters, though, are beginning to be a problem.)

~//~

David’s head feels much better resting in his hands.

“Excuse me,” an apologetic voice says, “am I disturbing you?”

David takes a moment to pull himself together, then raises his head with a Prime Ministerial grimace – or smile, as the masses call it. “Not at all, Ken, not at all.”

“I won’t stay long,” Ken says, cheerfully. “You’re a busy man. I just wanted to bring you this.”

A canary? A peasant’s head? Sixteen hallucinatory ties? Five chocolate cakes? Needles to stick in his bum to keep himself awake on the Commons benches?

Nothing would surprise David at this point.

Ken pulls two bottles of ale out of his bag. “Thought you might need it.”

“Ah yes,” David says, as if in a dream, hypnotised by the spell of the bottles. “You’re a member of the Campaign for Real Ale.”

“That’s right,” Ken says, setting the bottles down on David’s desk and patting his hand paternally. “If you need more, just call. I’ve always some on hand.”

After he’s gone, David says to the second ale bottle, quite seriously, “I think I love that man.”

~//~

“So,” Sam says, after he’s relayed his week of woe, “have you decided what to do in the reshuffle?”

David buries his face in the pillow. “I’ve decided not to have a reshuffle.”

“And why is that?” Sam asks, having become an expert translator of pillow-muffled Dave-language over the years.

“Because,” David says bleakly, “at this moment I’d fire the lot of them.”

“Except Ken Clarke.”

“Except Ken Clarke.”

Sam considers for a moment. “You know,” she says, slowly, “that sounds rather reasonable to me...”

And this, dear readers, is how David’s strange and disturbing week ended in a pillow fight.

~//~

epilogue

It is a normal morning in Danny Alexander’s office, if by normal we mean ‘Danny has been working since seven in the morning and now his boss is shouting something in the corridor.’

Danny sighs.

“Victory is mine! Victory is mine. Great day in the morning, people, victory is mine.”

George bursts into Danny’s office, doing a rather disturbing imitation of the Macarena.

Danny raises an eyebrow. “And what’s brought this on?”

George flings his head back with what he no doubt regards as flair. “I drink from the keg of glory, Danny. Bring me the finest chocolate coins in all the land.”

Danny rubs his temples. “I take it you’ve stopped the reshuffle, then?”

“I am da man,” George says, serenely.

Danny considers thumping his head into the desk, but he’ll have no head for figures the rest of the day if he does. “Please never say that again. And please stop quoting The West Wing. Your American accent is about as good as your maths.”

“Quite excellent, then,” George says, and waltzes out.

Sometimes Danny hates his job.

On the other hand, Theresa did give him a pair of kitten heels yesterday...

the end
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