MOREOVER ---

‘Gosh, he thought, Britain is safe at last’

The other day I read in The Guardian that British Rail supremo Sir Peter Parker had a short story in the latest issue of Fiction Magazine. Momentarily forgetting that one should never believe anything in the papers, I rushed out to buy a copy. Well, Peter Parker’s story was certainly about railways but it was a completely different Peter Parker, untitled and aged 29.

I do not regret my rash action, though. For one thing, it introduced me to an excellent short story magazine which I intend to cultivate regularly. For another, it suggested the brilliant idea of getting national figures to write short stories. Accordingly, I have commissioned Arthur Scargill to write the following story.

(Not, I need hardly explain, the Arthur Scargill, but an Arthur Scargill.)

***

THE CRUNCH

by Arthur Scargill, aged 15½

Chapter One

“I have evidence here," cried Stanley to the enormous crowd, “that the government has plans to close down the north of England!” He waved a piece of paper. “This, in my hand, is a list of constituencies that the Prime Minister intends to close down, or amalgamate, on the grounds that they are unproductive and old-fashioned Labour.”

“Gosh,” breathed Dan.

“No!” roared the crowd.

“Yes!” cried Stanley. “And if these closures went through, we would have at most four or five parliamentary seats in the north, leaving England a Tory nation for the rest of time. We can’t let that happen, can we?”

“By gum, no!” yelled the throng.

“I should think not,” murmured Dan

Chapter Two

Stanley was head of the newly-formed NAN – the National Association of Northerners – a huge movement formed to protest against the way all jobs and power were centred on London. Dan was his right-hand man. It might seem strange for a southerner to have this job, but he admired Stanley enormously; besides, it will give southern readers someone to identify with.

“Can I have a quick dekko at that list?” said Dan after the meeting.

“What? Oh, I’ll let you have a look one day,” said Stanley, pushing it into a pocket. “And I wouldn’t use words like dekko up here, lad. Bit colonial. Say shufty.”

Dan thought about pointing out that shufty was an Arabic word, then thought better of it.

Chapter Three

The government totally denied Stanley’s allegations, but the public was not convinced, by heck, they weren’t. Within six months the government had fallen and Stanley, by a brilliant electoral campaign which I won’t go into here but which depended on his brilliant oratory, honesty, power and passion, had become Prime Minister.

“Well done, Stanley!” said Dan admiringly, as they got on to the train together which was to take them south to Downing Street. “It’s going to be hard work running the country, though.”

"Happen it will be,” said Stanley. “But I’ve got some ideas. Here for instance, is a list of constituencies south of Watford which might well benefit from being closed down for a while.”

"Gosh, “ said Dan. “What a great idea! Can I have a shufty?”

“Shufty’s an Arabic word, lad. But you can have a butcher’s if you like.”

Chapter Four

Dan was a bit disappointed by Stanley’s first six months in office. He seemed to spend most of his time flying to Washington or going to parties. He certainly hadn’t closed down any Tory seats. Had he gone soft in the southern air?

“ I know what your thinking, lad,” said his mentor. “You’re thinking I’ve gone soft in the southern air. It isn’t so. I’m just pretending to go soft, fooling people into thinking that I’m safe, that I’ve forgotten my roots like Roy Jenkins. And the reason I haven’t tampered with the constituencies is that no matter what you do to the south the north is still a long way from London. Well I’m going to change that.”

“You mean – bring the North down here?"

“Nay, lad. Better than that. I’m moving Parliament to Sheffield! This weekend, a huge fleet of builders and lorries is going to dismantle Westminster and take it up the M1 to where it should be – in t’north! Monday morning, we start real business.”

Dan stared at his hero. Gosh, he thought. Britain is safe at last.

THE END

The Times May 23rd 1983