A Govemas Carol
In Prose
The evening was foggy and dark on Christmas Eve, as young William Atkinson plodded his way up the Cockpit steps and onto Old Queen Street, clutching his tweed blazer to his body to keep in the warmth. With an air of raffish good cheer and bright pink cheeks, William looked every bit the Edwardian schoolboy as he plunged his key into the door at Number 22. His gentle touch of smugness, dear reader, was warranted.
The paperwork had been signed and dated, the notice given in. Soon William would be leaving the world of Online Tory Blogging and flowering in that same Scottish spring that nourished Christopher Booker, Auberon Waugh and Jeffrey Barnard. “More of a Cocktail Party than a Political Party”, he wryly observed under his breath, as he climbed the staircase to the Editor’s office past the empty bottles of Pol Roger. In any other line of work being asked to come in on Christmas Eve during your notice period, before your start date, would rankle. But Just William was a man in a hurry with the world at his feet, and when the Editor of the world’s oldest magazine was calling, he came.
William bounces to the door and knocks to a jaunty rhythm, reasoning that a bold show of familiarity would mask his nerves.
“Come in William”.
William sweeps through the door and sees Michael Gove sitting at this desk. “Michael, ahoy. I’ve got that copy of ‘Just In Time’ with me if that’s what this is about.”
“Actually, William, it’s about something else.” Michael sighed. “Care for a whisky?”
“Yes, quite.”
Michael pushes an already full glass forward. “Marlboro Gold?”
“Err…”
“No matter.” Michael takes a sip from his own glass and draws one of his cigarettes out. He lights it and ponders the space in front of him. Though he looked distressed, there was still something magnificent, so Chris Hitchens about seeing a grizzled hack smoking and drinking inside.
“William…Kemi…”
William keeps shtum. As a self-described ‘sensitive young man’ he had flown close to the proverbial with his tacit endorsements of Robert Jenrick. ‘More heat than light’ indeed…
“She just doesn’t seem to be cutting through, William.”
“It would maybe help if she did something? Anything? Maybe some policies?”
“I hope you aren’t peddling the myth that Kemi Badenoch is a lazy woman, William”.
William’s face goes bright red. “I-“
“They said the same thing about Kwasi Kwarteng you know. That he was playing games on his mobile phone while the economy crashed instead of reading his briefing papers. That, and the usual tropes about his personal life and legendary appetite thereof.”
“Isn’t that all true?”
“Well, yes, I suppose it is, but that’s beside the point. It’s a nasty trope about Black British people, William, and you really ought not to repeat it.”
“U-understood.”
“Good. Now I want you to write a leader on her leadership so far, tipsy gossip from the Christmas parties - headline: ‘Stirring Beginnings’. How her prudent decision to not put forward any policy, or really anything at all, is winning hearts and minds.”
“Err…”
“William.” Michael gives William a stern nod. “Choose your battles wisely.”
“Ok Michael, I’ll get to work on it right away.”
“Very good William.”
William scampers away and Michael is left in the room on his own. He stubs out his cigarette and finishes the final sip of his ‘wee dram’. Now was time for home, but he allowed himself to luxuriate in his own success for another moment, thinking of the time that Boris had humiliated him by suggesting that Michael could take over as Editor in the 2000s. He thought of Fraser Nelson and his wild nonsense about lockdown, the snipes, the japes.
Michael grinned to himself and he strode to the waiting car below. The better Scot had won after all, and his was the Kingdom.
Michael returned to an empty flat and an empty bed on account of his better half’s return to France for ‘Noël’. He slept as he had always slept; soundly.
Satisfaction is the greatest sedative of all, and there was so much for Michael to be satisfied with. A graceful exit from politics into the Editorship of the world’s oldest magazine, complemented by the elevation of his chosen candidate to the Conservative Party leadership. A bright young woman from Nigeria would be Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, that would be his final legacy. And he had even been blessed with a second lease of love later in life. This was no bleak midwinter for Michael Gove, Spring had come early and all nature’s creation was vibrating, erupting and shimmering with life.
And so he slept, deeply.