Part One – A Clear Majority

At three o’clock in the morning, an official envelope was placed on the desk by the Chief Civil Servant, Sir Comfey, with an imperceptibly trembling hand.

‘The referendum result, Prime Minister,’ he announced in a calmly hysterical voice. This uncharacteristic ‘chink in armour’ produced a shudder of expectation around the room.

The gaze of the assembled ministers and staff was fixed on a magnificent ‘Victory Within Europe’ cake. It posed ostentatiously and nervously at one end of the Prime Ministers desk, surrounded by a galaxy of plates and silver cutlery. One of it’s candle’s, leant perilously to one side, as if presaging a cosmic domino effect.

The Prime Minister lifted the envelope with the tip of his precious ‘A Present from Malta’ letter opener. It reminded him of ex prime minister Churchill and how he saved small islands from disaster.

‘Should I be worried, Comfy? Is it…I mean…is it the result I am expecting?’ His eyebrows appeared to cross and float upward to his retreating hairline, like barage baloons in a Blitzed sky.

‘I think you should open it and see, Prime Minister…’ Comfy replied knowing that M16 had been all over it’s contents previous to the official sealing. A nervously calm hand slid the shaking blade into the corner of the envelope and slit it’s stomach; gutting the contents from which he read,

Votes for the UK to remain in Europe; 25,749,321

Votes for the UK to leave Europe; 25,749,322

The Prime Minister supported his forehead with his hand as he re-read the appalling news. His mind was skimming through a list of ‘implications and consequences’ in the way that only senior managers and the mentally ill can. Key amongst these was the realisation that this result would mean he will have to make an embarrassing resignation speech. All his life he has hated public humiliation and now, by one vote, he will have to grovel before the nation as a full-on loser.

But hold on reader, this Prime Minister’s political instinct (code named ‘pride in my country’) was smelling a rabbit hole to scuttle down. Read on.

‘Are you sure this is correct? It is, er, awfully close?’

‘NEOLVS – the new electoral on line voting system –  is faultless sir, which is why, if I may be permitted to remind you, you yourself championed it over the…(finger poised on lower lip ) what was that rather apt phrase you used, ‘prehistoric paper system open to too many convenient errors?‘

‘Yes, yes, you don’t have to remind me. It had to be my fault…it usually is…’

A nervous silence fell upon the room amongst the assembled special advisers, politicians and civil servants as they sensed the dark shadow moving across the country.

True statesmanship is often summoned by small gestures and the forthcoming moment of decision was signalled by the Prime Ministers left and then right eye brows coming back down to their more usual positions and the hand being removed from the forehead.

‘And am I correct in recalling, Sir Comfy, that this computer system allows us to find out who voted what…under extreme circumstances in which there is a threat to national security of course?’

‘Correct Prime Minister,’ (forever one step ahead), ‘and am I thinking that there may be such a threat contained in that envelope?’

‘Absolutely, Sir Comfy, the whole of the United Kingdom is poised to float off into the Gulf Stream!’

An imperceptible titter circled as a Mexican wave around the room.

‘I want to know…I need to know now, who was the very last person to vote at 21:59:59 hours on 23^rd June 2016. Who made this ill informed casting vote? Do you understand?’

The gusto with which the Prime Minister now was taking command, indicated to Sir Comfy that he was resolutely in pursuit of not making the resignation speech that he himself had taken such pains to sculpt to perfection, several weeks ago.

‘Such a pity,’ thought Sir Comfy, ‘such a fine blend of mock self sacrifice and unrestrained patriotism.’ But events were taking an un/expected turn.

‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ and clicked his fingers behind him as a non-verbal instruction to an aide, to return with this information within the next ten minutes or be on cat feeding duty for the next six months.

As the aide slipped out of the room, on cue, the No.10 cat, (renamed Cleggpuss in memory of a recent akward political partnership ) slipped in. The two black glossy doors shut in partnership.

After precisely nine minutes and ten seconds the aide returned clasping a nugget of computer paper which he conspicuously flattened out on the Prime Minister’s desk.

The PM skewered it with a cold sweaty finger and read;

Alice Mercury, 38, Clifton Terrace, Knightsbridge, London. Date of birth…

He squinted at Alice’s birthday, then grimaced with exasperation.

‘My God man, she had only just turned sixteen the previous day! If this blob of DNA had hung around in the womb a day or two longer, the United Kingdom would not be tilted on the edge of the precipice into which we are now about to precipitate.’

‘Need I remind you with total respect Sir, that you saw this as a’ …he cleared his throat with a high cough… ‘that vulgar phrase – a vote winner – namely reducing the minimum voting age from eighteen to sixteen Prime Minister…’

‘Yes, yes, but I remember you telling me quite plainly in that ‘know everything’ way of yours that all young people wanted to remain in Europe. Now one of them has wittingly or unwittingly, screwed the whole country!’

‘It appears so, Prime Minister. Under the rules of a referendum, as I am sure you know, a majority is a majority.’

‘Yes, but one nose ring infected school girl, effectively taking decisions of national interest! It, it goes against all common sense! And no Comfry! By that irratating ‘ironic’ look of yours I am not referring to myself, I am referring to this Alice creature!’ and he screwed up the offending piece of paper on which her name resided and tossed it angrily it at a strident Clegg Puss, missing by a whisker.

Sir Comfy had passively managed many important decisions in his blame evading career. Now he rose to the occasion with a deft sweep of his arm, ordering everyone, to leave the room. Clegg Puss was swept up in the arms of one of the junior secretaries and the doors slammed shut on the aborted victory celebration. Sir Comfy broke the sudden silence with even higher pitched cough.

‘Perhaps, I might suggest a remedial course of action Prime Minister. It may not work but then again…’

‘Go on…’

‘Well, if Miss Mercury could be approached discretely of course and persuaded to change her mind?’

‘Change her mind? What is the point of that? You yourself have said that the decision is final!’

‘I am thinking of a second referendum, Prime Minister, on the grounds that…oh…shall we say, the official server was hacked by the North Koreans or Russians, making the result of the first referendum unsound.’ Sir Comfy made a hardly perceptible but deeply significant bow as he beamed at the Prime Minister with this small – yet lethal, stroke of genius.

‘Sir, Comfy. Have I ever said,’ and a smile broke across the face of the Prime Minister, ‘that your mind should be preserved for all eternity in vintage Don Perignon?’

‘On one or two occasions, sir,’ bowing obsequiously and pitching a balding pate at the PM’s broad grin.

‘Well on this occasion you are approaching an ‘Order of the Garter’ or something higher. Is there an honour higher – in terms of intimate underwear?

His mind was veering off track and was quickly re-focused.

Now, I want this done straight away anyway. Get her out of bed if necessary. Persuade the changeling that leaving Europe is a very bad idea…you know all the impenetrable arguments. She has to be persuaded to be positive about ‘Britain’s leading role in Europe in the twenty first century…all that stuff. By what ever means, short of water boarding…or perhaps?

Sir Comfy interrupted the prime minister’s illegal thoughts.

‘May I suggest that we generously sponsor her journeying across the Channel and exploring Europe at the tax payers expense…’

‘Yes, yes, brilliant, send her over there to see what marvellous roads and railways they have from being members of the EU – hospitals brimming with doctors and nurses, border forces that actually keep out immigrants, mutual economic co-operation and trade, the Euro fighter, the Eurofighter song contest – Sir Cliff Richard, Euro football! It’s a fine and happy place Europe and clearly living in England has given her a understanding of only the worst aspects of European membership. Broken roads, haemorraging hospitals…’

Sir Comfy gave that imperceptible look that warned of a hole being dug and took a reverent pace backwards, walked out of the PM’s office and pulled the doors behind him.

‘Thank you Clive. Thank you.’

The PM leaned back in his creaky leather swivel chair and perched his shoes in the centre of his desk, linking both hands behind his head in the ‘thinking’ position.

This repulsive Victory Cake may still be voraciously consumed and I will continue in public office with my party and the whole country behind me.