European Initiative no 55553: Prime Minister Job-swap

17/05/2011 by Christopher Buxton

Based on my local greengrocer’s plea: Can’t we swap yours for ours?

Bulgaria’s Greatest Living Statesman glared at the Downing Street cat. It just sat there cleaning its whiskers – yet another example of privilege he’d have to deal with. Ey, my furry friend, if I don’t see some dead mice soon, I’ll have you stuffed and mounted for the Bankya Natural History Museum.

The cat stretched and yawned. It didn’t seem to understand straight talking any more than that useless cabinet of ministers Dave had left him with. All they wanted to do was to reminisce about their school days. When he’d threatened to bang heads together, they perked up but said that they preferred the cane. Parliamentary Question Time was a different matter. That Ed Milliband just opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. A bit like Stanishev on heat – easy to bat away with some choice words that had his party laughing like jackals.

In times of stress a man needs to remind himself of his greatness and so BGLS reached into his pocket and unfolded the plans for electrically heated motorways. In a stroke he’d solve the UK’s winter transport problems. He’d call the BBC – make sure there was a picture of him with a spade and some cable on the M1, He would have basked in this imagined glory but at that moment the phone rang with international urgency. Two days into the new Job-Swap European initiative, Colleague Cameron still couldn’t find his way out of a Bulgarian toilet, let alone cope with the rough and tumble of everyday politics.

What would it be this time? Did he have to explain the Macedonian question yet again? How many times did he have to say that with Berlusconi in charge of Macedonia, all Cameron had to do was send some hot Bulgarian totty over from Kyustendil? Or would it be more complaints about the roads in Sofia? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t warned Cameron about taking his Rolls Royce. If the holes in the roads didn’t smash it up, there’d be Volen Siderov, jumping on the bonnet, armed with a megaphone.

He picked up the phone and listened to Cameron gabbling away – this time it was about hospitals and cockroaches. Why was Cameron obsessed with the Bulgarian health system instead of something simple like motorways? These English politicians just loved to put hedgehogs in their underpants. “Listen Davecho, don’t worry about the cockroaches. We need them to find out where pipes go. And don’t worry about all our best doctors coming over to your country. Bulgaria has the best health system in the world? Who needs doctors or nurses? We’ve got a hundred medical newspapers and we pay two and a half million pensioners to read them and keep the rest of us informed.”

BGLS slammed the phone down and looked through his engagement diary: Tsvetelina had laid on lunch with the Governor of the Bank of England so she could arrange their overdraft facilities and that good lad, Berbatov had arranged a kick about for five o’clock with photographers laid on. BGLS frowned. What was this meeting with HRH in half an hour? He didn’t remember seeing a dossier. Was this the pseudonym of some local gangster? He pressed the intercom.

Well HRH turned out to be the Queen of England. Although she was only symbolic, he still had to see her once a week. It was a lot better than having to put up with Purvanov’s ugly mug. Dave had told him a lot about all the formalities, but BGLS hadn’t paid any attention. The Queen was a woman and she’d be delighted to spend time with a red blooded man for a change. These English were all wimps and her husband was a Greek – enough said.

Mitko the Ears had an excellent way of cutting through the London traffic in the Hummer specially adapted by Gosho Ganchev.

By the time they reached the gates of Buckingham Palace, BGLS was ready to rely on his undoubted Balkan charm. If his hair-raising Fireman stories didn’t make the Queen’s knees tremble, then he’d make her laugh with some salty tales from his bodyguard days. Ey, he slapped his pocket to make sure he had his daughter’s photo ready. Prince Harry seemed a lad with a good sense of humour.

His measured tread echoed through the marbled hallway. A chandelier tinkled. Mighty doors opened. There was the Queen standing by the tea table as if she’d been waiting for such a man all her life. He kicked a yapping corgi aside, grabbed her hand and pressed his lips to her gloved fingers.


BGLS winked. He always had a way with women.