'Well you can whip my milky white ass if you think I'm going to do that, fat boy. Go and yank on it.' Jenny put her hand over the middle of her forearm and pushed her fist to and fro twice at Icabalde, picked up her handbag and stormed out of his office.

'Bye then.' said Icabalde softly.

He sat back and took a sip of his Earl Grey tea. A most disappointing outcome to what he'd hoped would be a most fruitful conversation. Jenny had never been the most co-operative when it came to matters of State, seeming to want to work to her own agenda rather than the parties interests.

He'd invited her in to discuss the recently presented Private Members Bill on amendments to the Freedom of Information Act. One he had decided to oppose, he'd informed Jenny. Not that he had any problems per sae with it, but deep down did the public really have the right to know what parliamentarians were up to? It did seem so deeply intrusive to him. Outwardly he would be happy to support it, but would be inconveniently delayed for the vote. Jenny had agreed and being of like minds they sat sipping tea discussing the weather and the overall wretchedness of their situation. Would it not be easier jacking it all in and becoming an MEP, enjoying a three day week, free European travel and gainfully employing their frankly unemployable issue at the expense of the European public purse.

Having joined in this accord, Icabalde broached the subject he'd intended to bring up when he'd invited Jenny across. 'It seems to me Jenny, that the PM shows no signs of moving on despite his unpopularity with the public at large.'

'So it seems, Icabalde.' Jenny replied somewhat guardedly.

'It therefore appears more likely that you, Hugo or I will soon have to show our hand.'

'I believe so, Icabalde.' Jenny checked the door to make sure it was not ajar.

'But that could be rather,' Icabalde paused and selected a custard cream from the plate, 'Messy.'

'In what way?' Jenny pulled out a lipstick and a vanity mirror from her Louis Vuitton bag.

'Well we have no agreement yet on who would get the top slot. Have we?' Icabalde cracked open his biscuit and carefully checked its contents.

'I had assumed it would be me, Icabalde, it's hardly going to be Hugo is it? And I always saw you as such a good number two.'

'Ah,' said Icabalde laying the two halves of the biscuit down on his plate.

'Problem?'

'Well, I agree on one point. It can't be Hugo, he's too young, too impatient and too indiscreet, if you know what I mean.' Icabalde flipped one part of the biscuit into his mouth and watched Jenny apply her lipstick. 'As I see it you have the support of the right of the party, me the left. Hugo the indecisive middle. If we lobby them hard, they will be swayed and drop their support and Hugo will pull up lame. It will become a two horse race if you follow my analogy.'

'We just need to decide a winner.'

'Precisely.' Icabalde was pleased she'd dropped Hugo without a fight. 'The problem I think we have is that when the public look at you they see a busy mother, stretched between family and job, struggling to keep up. And you sit rather on the Right don't you. And what's more, you're a woman.'

'What's that Icabalde?' Jenney asked prickly, putting down her tea.

'Well given recent history with female PM's Jenny, do you really you should run the Country? The unions are hardly going to persuade their members to forget the recent troubles are they?' Icabalde held up his hand. 'Not that I have any problem with that myself of course. But in this little coup d'état, wouldn't it be just easier that I took on the key role and you came up a short second. The Deputy PM's role would be yours after all.'

It was at this point Jenny had risen, picked up her handbag, angrily pronounced her frankly rather stilted views on his plan and had exited his office, slamming the door so hard the windows had bounced in their frames.

Icabalde sighed and thoughtfully finished his biscuits. Of course when he became PM Jenny would have to go, she clearly wasn't Deputy PM material. Shame really, he'd miss their little chats though. For she filled in the gaps so blatantly left open in this Christian school education. He'd have to get the insufferable oik Hugo in now and go through the same routine.

Icabalde really quite enjoyed his conversations with Jenny. It extended his literary range. He'd started a new list in his notebook, OMM (Obscene Ministerial Missives). Jenny gave him most of his material for this section. He was counting on Jack Springer of the Yard to fill any gaps. His only regret was he'd not started his list sooner. Drawing his diary of his suit jacket pocket he opened it on his desk and wrote.

You can whip my milky white ass if you think I'm going to do that fat boy.  Addendum 'Go and yank on it' -Arm over elbow and push fist to and fro (with vigour).

He checked a few of the other entries on the extensive list-

Up yours fuckeroo -With the finger (optional)

'Arse' accompanied by a raspberry noise, tongue held firmly between the teeth. Use to discredit another's opinion.

He slipped his notebook away and stood to look out of the window.

The PM was on the steps of Number 10, deep in animated conversation with the Duty Officer. The PM pointed at the Officers' truncheon and the man reluctantly drew it out and passed it to the PM. Icabalde stepped closer to the window, his interest aroused. As he watched they both turned and the PM prodded at the earth in the planter with the truncheon. He pulled it free and then cautiously sniffed its end and held it under the nose of the officer. The man slightly over- enthusiastically sniffed and then rocked back, holding his nose to avoid being overpowered.

Across the street there was a yell and a young blonde ran across the road with a camera man trailing along behind. The PM stood up and swiftly passed back the baton to the disconcerted looking Officer. He beamed at the young blond and took up his characteristically interview stance, head thrown confidently back with his hands held in front of him, fingers pressed together like a little church hall.

The Police Officer crouched behind the PM, prodded around in the planter for a minute or so and then, looking up to check he was not being observed, furtively cleaned his truncheon on the back of the PM's coat's tail ends before slipping it back into his belt and returning to his position by the front door. We really must do more to engage with the Police, Icabalde thought. These constant cuts are beginning to have an adverse impact on the Government's standing with them.

A light knock at the door disturbed Icabalde from this theatre of oddities.

'Icabalde, Are you free?' Lesley asked slightly uncertainly.

'Yes, yes come in.' Icabalde waved and stepped forward to greet her. Taking her hand he pulled her close to him. He could feel her heart beating against his chest. A heart he knew that was as clear and pure as the crystal fruits his grandfather used to give him as a boy. He found her sweet innocence a captivating contrast to his world of ruthless cynicism. Holding her tightly against his body he inhaled her intoxicating mixture of honeyed hair and almond scented skin. Leaning down he gently kissed the lips of her upturned face, catching the delicate fragrance of peppermint oil on her breath.

'Please Icabalde not here, we might get caught.' She gently pulled away from him, 'Look, I've got these for you.' She pushed a small package into his hands.

He opened the package and pulled out a pair of long green rubber gloves, with little leather trim round the cuffs.

'Will you be wearing them tonight?' he asked, his voice shaking with excitement. He could see himself at her flat cavorting under her duvet or perhaps in his office late at night, both lying naked on his desk drinking champagne, she wearing nothing but the rubber gloves, him drizzling long amber trials of maple syrup over her body revelling in the sensuous aroma released by the warmth of her skin.

His mind raced. Soon he would be PM, it wouldn't be long now and he'd take over. He'd often imagined himself and the PM standing unclothed at night in front of the fire, face to face, mano on mano. Each of them breathless, trembling as adrenaline coursing through their bodies ready for the fight. He could see their shadows thrown up in relief against the wall, the PM's malevolent, twisting, shifting. Icabalde's strong, unwavering, upright, erect. And then they would lunge forward, each running their hands over the perspiring body of their adversary, searching, grappling for the winning hold. Then Icabalde would storm forward and grasp the PM's fleshy buttocks in his hands and flip him backwards and send him crashing to the floor. And then he, Icabalde would stand legs apart his skin glistening with a million red ruby beads of perspiration as the PM cowered on the floor and acknowledge Icabalde as the victor and his master.

'Icabalde are you listening? They are for you. The bin bags in my flat's basement are all ripped open. None of the other tenants will help me sort it out. Could you come round tonight and help me get them into the skip?'

Icabalde stood collecting his thoughts while Lesley gently lifted his hands and slipped the gloves on. 'There,' she stroked him on his chest. 'They look just right, I was afraid they would be too small.'

'Hello Icabalde, you in there?'

Surprised, Icabalde swung around and Lesley stepped hurriedly back.

'Good, I'm glad I caught you, Icabalde.' The PM swept into Icabalde office trailing a reek of Eau du Feline Poo of such strength that Icabalde reeled back, caught off guard by the PM's olfactory offensive. Breathing shallowly through his mouth, Icabalde studied the PM for a second. It appeared he had not seen Lesley and him together.

'I'll make the tea.' said Lesley and hurried out.

'New gloves, Icabalde. Very novel I must say.'

'Oh just trying them on for size PM, they're a present from Lesley for a friend's birthday.' Icabalde swiftly covered his tracks. 'She asked me to try them on for size, her friends hands are the same size as mine she thinks.' Icabalde raised his hands in the air and experimentally wiggled his fingers.

'Good to see you have the time to involve yourself in these little diversions, Icabalde. Who'd have thought with all these important issues the Government are facing that you can find the time to try on rubber gloves.'

'It's the personal touch that keeps staff loyal and motivated PM.' Icabalde retorted with a thin smile.

'I'm sure.' responded the PM curtly. 'Can you smell anything Icabalde?' The PM threw his coat over the back of Icabalde's Chinese silk chaise longue.

'Nothing PM.' Icabalde coughed, expelling the stench from his lungs. 'Why?'

'Well I can. It smells of crap. Cat crap. Everywhere I go I can smell it. It's like it's following me. How's that investigation going?' The PM sat down heavily in the chair in front of Icabalde's desk.

'Latest update is that the police have confiscated five thousand hours of CCTV tape from various locations around Downing Street and are working their way through it. We just have to hope our perpetrator isn't a black cat in a black mask slinking around in the middle of the night.'

'I'm glad you find it amusing Icabalde. It's not like your job depends on it does it?' The PM picked up Icabalde gloves and cautious sniffed them. Seemingly satisfied he laid them back on the table.

'We're getting there PM. Be assured of that.'

'Good, because I want this wrapped up before the French President and his wife visits next week.' The PM looked at the empty cups on the table.' Sit down Icabalde, there a few things I want to talk to you about.'

'Of course, PM.'

'It's been on my mind for a while, Icabalde that I might like to take up a different role for the country.'

Icabalde leant forward. 'I heard the Head of the British Tourist Board has just become vacant. It involves plenty of travel and the expense account is notoriously generous.'

'I feel enjoying the delights of the English Rivera is somewhat below my aspirations, Icabalde. What I've been thinking about it.' The PM looked furtively about and leant forward and whispered.' When to French President is over here next week I'm going to suggest the Queen steps down and I take over as the President of the United Kingdom. There! I've said it! It works in France very well, why can't it work here?'

What an opportunity, what a train crash of an opportunity! Icabalde's heart jumped! The PM announces his move to oust the Queen, the public turn against him and his little wily French poodle friend from across the water and his repugnant French republic. It would be the biggest public relation disasters since Archduke Franz Ferdinand's driver decided to take a shortcut on his way to work to avoid the traffic.

'Why indeed PM, quite brilliant. You've certainly hit the button on this one. The public are growing tired of the old institutions, the Royals are an outdated establishment. You came into office on a passport of change, of modernisation. The public respect you, you have the touch of the elder statesmen about you.'

'Not too much elder, Icabalde?' The PM checked his bronzed reflection in Icabalde's regency mirror.

'Young in mind and body, but old beyond your years in intellect and capability, PM.' Icabalde soothed.

'You think I could pull it off? Thelma's given me her full support, it was her idea really.'

'Of course you could. Without doubt, turn on that charm and you'll have the rank and file behind you in no time.' Icabalde pulled out his notebook and looked attentively at the PM.

'You think I've still got it then? What it takes?'

'In buckets, PM, in buckets.'

'Obviously I'd need some support, Icabalde. I can count on you, can't I? I was thinking something along the lines of a vote in Parliament, the Queen steps down and I assume the role -a nice smooth changeover is what I was thinking. A ten year term might be a good starting point.'

Icabalde nodded eagerly and wrote in his notebook. He's Out! He's out! He's out!'

The PM, encouraged by this literary activity, continued in earnest. 'But we don't want to go upsetting people do we, Icabalde? She can still do some public engagements if she wants to and live in Buck House. Thelma was thinking we could have Hampton Court. That would work for everyone, don't you think?'

'To be magnanimous in in victory, PM. How very decent of you.' Icabalde wrote, I'm in! I'm in! I'm in!

'The PM leaned back, 'and of course that leaves my role open doesn't it. You know, I've never trusted Hugo, he's a bit of a sneaky bastard isn't he. And Jenny, Jesus! Does she swear a lot? If you can swing this for me Icabalde well then, the Crown is yours. Well no, that will be mine but you know what I mean.'

Twat, thought Icabalde. 'It's a sound plan PM. I'll talk to the Chief Whip. Discretion is his watchword. He'll start to rally the troops.'

'Really Icabalde, that really is most decent of you.' Said the PM rising to go. 'You'll keep me in the loop won't you? Not a word to anyone outside the party faithful.'

'Not a word, PM.'

The PM swept his mobile cat litter off the sofa and headed for the door. 'Oh Icabalde, there is just one more thing.'

'Yes, PM?'

'Those bikes of Anomalous Rex's. Thelma's like a dog with a bone on it, she insists Rex said they were ours and says if you're the man we think you are, the sort of man to lead this Country..' The PM gave Icabalde a pronounced wink, 'you'd be able to sort this one out.'

'In what way?' sighed Icabalde.

'I see. Well, I've not really thought about it,' the PM appeared to think for a moment. 'How about if it turned out he'd bequeathed them to a charity?'

'Your charity, PM?'

'Not mine. Icabalde, the Worlds. Our Charity for the study of rising World sea levels is something Thelma and I are committed to. We, as sole trustees, use our trips abroad to advocate the careful use of natural resources throughout the World. We're doing it for the benefit of our children and our children's children. The future inhabitants of Earth. We are only caretakers, you know that don't you?'

Icabalde held up his hand, if he had to listen to another self-sanctimonious speech on from the PM he was likely to do something unconscionable. Somehow he felt it would involve the rubber gloves and the policeman's baton. 'I'll see what I can do PM. Leave it to me. Here.' He stood and helped the PM into a coat that was humming so much, it was close to breaking into song.

Having escorted the PM out, Icabalde slumped back into his chair and thoughtfully rolled his pen round his knuckles.

Leslie poked her head round the door. 'It smells like Scooby Doo in here?'

'What?' Icabalde put down his pen.

'Icabalde, it's a bit funky. You know, honky wonky. Can't you tell?' Leslie creased up her flawlessly perfect nose.

'Oh that! Yes, it's the PM,' Icabalde pulled open the window.

'Well perhaps you should tell him. It's not very nice. I'll get some air freshener'.

'You do that sweetie.' Icabalde patted her pretty behind.

'Icabalde, you do like them don't you? They were very expensive.'

'I do sweetie, I just love them. I'll come around later,' he carefully picked up the gloves and smiled at her.

Sitting down again. Icabalde checked he was alone and held the gloves up to his nose and inhaled deeply, dragging the intoxicating scent up through his nasal columns. Closing his eyes he was immersed in old memories. His school chemistry lab with its rubber gloves and plastic glasses, bubbling test tubes emitting gasses of wondrous colours and strange smells. The marvel of firework night with its bangs and flashes and the arid stench of rubber when his father had thrown an old bicycle tyre on the fire. Burning little plastic soldiers on little twig fires and watching them writhe and wither in the caustic yellow flames.

Exhaling slowly, his body juddering with pleasure, he opened his eyes. He waited a moment for the memories to fade then deftly folded the gloves neatly together before slipping them back into their packet, sealing it with an elastic band and dropping it into his top drawer. Picking up his notebook Icabalde created a new section. He called it LNW's for Lesley's New Words.

Funky

Scoobie Doo.

Honky Wonky.

At this rate he'd have enough entries to outdo Dr Johnston's first effort. He tapped the pen reflectively against his lips and then pushed the button on the intercom. 'Lesley, could you get me the Chief Whip and then get onto Sir Berty's office, try Olga. I need the contact details for one, Pawser Bingham, code name Velvet Fox.'