The Washington-England Hot-Line

British Prime Minister Tony Blair is about to tackle his breakfast.  He's already at his desk, piled high with papers relating to the English role in the War against Terror.  His breakfast is British haute cuisine – fried eggs, toast and blood pudding.  He slices a ring of blood pudding and stabs half with his fork, ready to savor the delicacy.

(For low-browed Americans unfamiliar with British food, blood pudding is a sausage-shaped animal by-product made of intestines, fillers, and coagulated blood.  Mmmmmm….)

The Washington hot-line rings.  Tony utters un un-stiffer-lip curse and puts down his fork.  He picks up the solid black phone receiver, the same one that Winston Churchill used in WWII.  The British love tradition, and why replace something before it has worn out?

"Blair here."

The earpiece delivers a perky Texas twang.  "Hey, Tony-boy, it's George."

"Yes, that was my first guess," Tony replies, though he doubts that George got the joke.  Then again, perhaps it's not a joke – after all, if anything ever happens to George, it will be Dick Cheney on the hot-line.  Tony represses a shudder; something about Cheney reminds him of those werewolf movies that always made him wet himself as a child – except that, of course, one always ended up sympathizing with the poor man who couldn't help being a werewolf.  No such sympathy for that mouth-foamer Cheney....

George brings him back to the moment.  "Tony-boy, I thought you had my back. What the hell are you doing over there?"

"What are you talking about, George?"  Blair's eyes flick from one stack of papers to another:  reports on the occupation of Iraq, intelligence on Osama bin Laden's network, legislation to further reduce the civil liberties of the Queen's subjects in the pursuit of physical safety, and plans for future joint operations with the U.S.  "George, I've had your back from day one, you know that."

"How can you say that, you two-faced limey?  You've gone an' repudditatered everything!  You've made a monkery of our unification.  You've let them win!"

Blair is becoming remarkably annoyed.  His stiff upper lip almost cracks upward.  "Mr. Bush," he says in a firmly scolding tone straight out of a Sherlock Holmes film, "you are making no sense whatsoever.  I shall have to ask you to explain yourself."

Bush sputters.  "Me?  Hell, you need to explain yourself!  You damned English are causing the collapse of decent civilization!  May as well ask the Froggies to help, all the good you've done!  Marriage!  You – he – homos – Elton John!  First you let him have a sword, call him 'Sir Elton.'  Now you let him marry another homo!  Tony, you had my back!"

Realization dawns inside Blair's polite British forehead.  "Oh, that.  Yes, George, the Queen made Elton John a Knight – though I daresay he already had a bit of a 'sword' of his own from birth."  Blair chuckles inwardly at his own wit.  "And yes, Parliament has now decided that gender has nothing to do with the civil contract of marriage."

"You're destructing civilization as we know it!  You're just as bad as those damned judges."

"Calm yourself, George.  I hardly agree with you.  It's been happening in Canada for quite some time, not to mention that little upstart colony started by that rebellious bastard John Adams.  But you know, George, the traffic signals still go from red to green and back."

Bush sputters incoherently for a moment, then manages a single word:  "Traitor!"

"Look, George, a pooftah here and there isn't destroying society.  We've quite gotten used to them here in England.  They're actually rather harmless, and Sir Elton has a marvelous voice.  That song he wrote just for poor Princess Di still brings tears to my eyes.  Really, you Americans ought to get on to something important, like regulating beef or something."

"Who's gotten to you, Tony?  Just send me a signal in code – like blink your eyes twice if they have a gun to your head."

"We're not on a video connection, George," Blair politely reminds his American counterpart.  "Look, George, I rather think you're not getting enough sleep.  What time is it in Washington, 3:00 a.m.?  Perhaps you should get to bed."

"I'm too busy protecting the world from democracy, Tony – an' as far as I'm concerned, Elton John is right up on the list with Osama.  An' now I can't even trust you.  Be careful – I might just have to tap your phone next!"  A loud click signals the end of the conversation.

Blair puts the receiver back in its cradle.  "I wonder if it's bird-flu," he muses to himself before he turns his attention back to his breakfast.  The eggs are congealed, the blood pudding room temperature at best.  Blair frowns, but digs in – it would be bad for Britain if its Prime Minister allowed waste and asked for a fresh plate.

Copyright © 2005 by Gregory P. Lee.  This material may be forwarded via e-mail without alteration for non-commercial purposes.  Newspapers and other publishers may only publish this material after obtaining the author's permission.

Mr. Lee is proprietor of Three/Four Communications, an entrepreneur, and is an Adjunct Professor at Wentworth Institute of Technology in Boston, Massachusetts. His writings can be found at www.threefourcomm.com.