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Prime Cuts

Matt Flintoff

    Battering rams smashed into the steel reinforced door of No. 10 Downing Street. The sound of angle grinding filled the air. A black-hooded figure stood apart from the jeering crowd, pounding steadily on a bass drum as the building shook down to its foundations.
    “Good grief, Smythe, what is that racket?” The Right Honourable Winford-Brooks KG MBE looked up from the mahogany Chippendale desk that adorned the Green State Drawing Room.
    “I suspect that’s the electorate, Prime Minister. As I’m sure you are aware, there’s been quite the furore since the budget cuts were passed last month.” The smashing grew louder and the hinges on the doorframe began to buckle.
    The Prime Minister pushed his spectacles up his nose, “How did they get this far? Where’s the police sentry?”
    “As I’m sure the Prime Minister would recall,” Smythe’s thin, puckered face betrayed no emotion, “public security and law enforcement duties are to be undertaken by private service providers from this week onwards.” The reverberations continued, and the incoherent yelling from outside grew louder.
    “Well then, where are they?”
    “Administrative error, sir. The American firm overseeing Prime Ministerial security believed their duties would begin on March 3rd, whereas our contract clearly stated February 2nd.”
    “Preposterous. Why wasn’t I informed?” An angry fist slammed down on the desk. The Prime Minister’s 14 carat gold wedding ring had chipped the mahogany.
    “Cost saving measure, sir.” Smythe raised a glib eyebrow, “Since the House of Lords’ rebranding, all public spending decisions are now divulged on a need-to-know basis. All fiscal measures are to be the sole responsibility of the upper legislative house-”
    “Get me a line to the House of Shareholders now.”
    “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir.”
    “NOT POSSIBLE? How, may I ask, is this not possible? You’re the bloody Director of Communications, Smythe, all you need to do is pick up the damn phone.”
    Smythe sighed and wiped away a glob of spit that had landed on his lapel. “Since last month the House of Shareholders has voted to govern from their retreats in the Cayman Islands, British Virgin Islands and Anguilla, among other overseas territories.”
    Before the Prime Minister could begin to articulate his dismay, 10 Downing Street’s 8-inch-thick blast proof door gave way and toppled to the floor with an almighty crash.
    “Oh Christ.” was all he managed to sputter.
    The citizenry filled the entrance hall in seconds and set about their work. A Turner was ripped from its frame just as an axe plunged into the grandfather clock by the main staircase. Cherry wood splinters skittered across the checkerboard floor.
    All colour drained from the Prime Minister’s face. It was up to him now to muster all the statesmanship he could. He stepped forward.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE!” he boomed over the din, “I’m sure you all have your grievances. However, due process must be observed. Peaceful protest is really the only way to address your concerns.”
    In response, a metal javelin sailed through the air. It was arrow-tipped, painted black, and looked suspiciously like it had been ripped from the Downing Street gates. It impaled Smythe.
    “Crying shame, sir. We’d just had the Turner retouched...” He directed his last communication and slumped to the floor, clutching his chest.
    A tall, portly man emerged from the crowd. He stood in full chef’s attire, complete with a floppy toque blanche perched on his shaved head. An oversized meat cleaver hung from his right hand, which he slowly raised until the tip reached the Prime Minister’s eye level. He did not break eye contact as he spoke to the crowd behind.
    “Look ‘ere, ladies and gents, there’s plenty of meat on this one.” The chef placed the cleaver’s flat end underneath the trembling politician’s chin. “Civil servants, local Councillors, Lords and Ladies, we’ve ‘ad ‘em all haven’t we boys and girls?”
    Chattering, braying, and gnashing of teeth erupted along the whole length of Downing Street. There was nowhere to run. This didn’t stop the Right Honourable Winford-Brooks KG MBE from backing away, scanning for possible exit routes. The chef advanced, and in one quick movement lopped off the Prime Minister’s left ear. The resulting screams were ignored.
    “We’ve ‘ad stews, brews and BBQs.” The chef scooped the ear off the ground and brought it to his mouth. He thoughtfully tasted it and smacked his lips. “But now then, now then lads and lasses... Nuthin’ quite like this. Now it’s about time we ‘ad a fresh round of administrative cuts.”

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