A short story ending, ‘Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats’
‘Yes , sir, it’s a sad story. It must have come as a bit of a bombshell – the interfaith dream blowing up in his face, no luck with his memoirs or after-dinner speeches and then the embarrassing business of getting his fingers burned over global warming.’
‘Did he visit the jobcentre often?’
‘Yes, but we couldn’t help him. Richard and Judy’s sofa was filled, the WI didn’t want a new patron, pop groups weren’t interested in ageing guitarists, the Queen had no vacancies for personal mentors and Ken Livingstone politely rejected his offer to replace the Millennium Dome with an Olympic Cube.’
‘They say he fancies photography now.’
‘Yes, sir – he probably sees himself as the next David Attenborough. He photographs stray pets.’
‘What was he doing when last you heard?’
‘Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats.
(Blair’s departure from Parliament as it might have been)
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