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The Crack Magazine



The Blonde Bombshell looked at himself in the mirror prior to his morning run. Mottled cerise shorts, faded yellow t-shirt and dirty (and when I say dirty, I mean grey) Stan Smith trainers circa 1978. Yeah, that will do, he thought. He looked like a day-old ice cream melted on a path, but he’d seen worse. The less said about the running the better. This was a party conference, so he wasn’t allowed out of the building to run on the streets, and even a visit to the hotel gym meant bodyguards. He couldn’t get on with running machines though, too fast, too slow, his ungainly thump brought groans from some of the other sweaty occupants. Nasty Party members too. Where was their bloody respect? After ten minutes he staggered off, went back to his room, showered, changed into one of his many dark-blue baggy suits and ordered the full English. He couldn’t be seen to order a continental after all the shit he was currently aiming at the EU could he? That was his excuse, an excuse, nevertheless, that would have frustrated his personal doctor who thought his cholesterol levels were far too high. And then, of course, the second problem in choosing a full English is that he just couldn’t stop himself troughing the whole lot in two minutes flat. At which point The Latest Flame walks in. Oh, for fuck’s sake BB she roared – you’ve got egg all over your tie and lapels – don’t you ever learn - get changed. He immediately did as he was told, the morning of the leader’s speech wasn’t the time for a knock-down-drag-out especially when he wasn’t certain he’d win let alone get away with a TKO. After another suit change, he went through the speech – he thought he’d better as he hadn’t written a word of it. God, there was a lot of bluster even for a bunch of policy nerds and wonks from conservative central office. Build back better? Not a chance this side of Covid and Brexit – still, the great unwashed seemed to love all this stuff - he didn’t seem to be able to do anything wrong. Pity he couldn’t spend more time with them rather than Dum-dum ‘Handman’ Draab and Revolta ‘Hot-Stepper’ Grove who were constantly sniping about the sort of winky wanky detail he couldn’t give a fig about. And The Latest Flame? Well, she’d have to do for a couple more years. Bang out a few more (Tory) sprogs at least. He checked himself in the mirror again. Better be at his smartest before he went and met the party faithful, as he didn’t want The Latest Flame to have another go at him. But as he emerged from his room (with untucked shirt and uncombed hair) The Latest Flame emerged from somewhere, uncannily bang on cue, screamed again and went ahead in a total rage. Ah, well, at least he knew he’d get some love from everyone in conference, if no one else.