‘It’s a complete disaster, a political career destroyed by the gutter press,’ Lt-Col Haxtell-Oxenham, the Party constituency chairman, wobbled his three chins and drew on his whisky. ‘He was an outstanding advocate for the cause. This will set us back somewhat.’
Grenville Ashplant, member of parliament (but probably not for much longer), paced the corridor outside the room where the political committee discussed his future. A future that once blazed like the North Star and was now spluttering to an ignominious end.
Ashplant was a one of the new breed of politician; although still in his thirties he had been tipped to be the next Party leader but one. He had tapped into what they didn’t like to call the zeitgeist (because the word sounded so foreign). Ashplant was a terrific public speaker and with his blond hair, clear skin and even, white teeth, along with a willingness to espouse strong opinions, he was the darling of 24-hour news channels.
He led the charge back to ‘traditional values.’ Retired colonels and maiden aunts across the nation donated large chunks of their pensions to the Party; and nearly as importantly, their votes at election time.
Ashplant’s manic speeches were legendary with his arms flailing and spittle dribbling down his chin his great rallying cry was: ‘Birch juvenile delinquents, bring back the cane in schools.’
Lt-Col Haxtell-Oxenham’s eyes blazed as he ripped up the front page of the Sunday newspaper with its screaming headline: ‘HANG ’EM, FLOG ’EM M.P. SPANKS RENT BOYS’
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 