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Time for a break, Prime Minister?

It was dark already! How could it be so dark at 4pm in the afternoon? It was only September, for Bob’s sake!

The Prime Minister stretched his arms and arched his back, groaning loudly as he did so and slumped back down at his desk. It had been a late night yesterday. He’d begun that day full of enthusiasm and ended up drunk as a skunk, vomiting violently into a policeman’s helmet whilst ChewChewShoe, one of his Deputy PMs, held his hair back and patted him gently.


PC Drew Peacock had never seen so much sick in his own helmet before...

The morning had been bright and WookieO even had a slight spring in his step as he descended the long staircase at 10 Downing Street. He was meeting with his Ministers of Foreign Affairs, Rfeist and Bohemond4, for a chat about where they stood with eIreland. The House of Commons had voted through the NAP the previous day and all Wook needed to finish off this area was confirmation that the Irish Dáil had done the same.

When he entered the conference room, he could tell things weren’t going well.

Rfeist was stuffing his face with the iced buns and almond danishes that he does so love and Boh was almost mainlining coffee whilst a pair of buxom wenches secretaries scampered around the room, printing off emails and answering phones.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the hirsute figure that had just entered the room. Then Rfeist started choking on an almond and one of the secretaries had to give him an almighty Heimlich manoeuvre to dislodge the nut in question.


Chekov was always first in there with the ladies…

“So, how’s the treaty going down over in eIreland?” Wook asked Boh, the Minister unconsciously moving towards the rear door, “Everything coming along swimmingly?”

“Errrmmmm, yes, I suppose you could say that, if you wanted to….” Boh replied, a wary grin on his face, “...I must dash though, got a very important meeting with eSpain to attend, something about the Canaries….Rich’ll fill you in…” and with that he flung himself out of the room.

Rfeist was recovering in a corner, ably assisted by Sharon, his personal secretary. He looked up as the back door slammed shut behind Boh and WookieO began sliding closer like a shark sensing blood in the water.

“Ah, sir. Yes….” he began, nervously wiping the sweat forming on his brow, “It looks like the Irish aren’t too keen on this, errrrrmmm, treaty.”

“In fact, it looks like we won’t be signing anything today actually!”

The PM had by now crossed half the room and was almost bearing down on the poor minister, when he stopped, picked up a fax machine and lobbed it at his colleague.

Rfeist ducked and the obsolete piece of office technology hurtled through a cabinet behind him, decapitating a bust of former leader, BigAnt, before coming to rest.


Sharon could take down this note now…



That was when things started going downhill.

As far as anyone could piece together, WookieO had stormed from No.10, getting his driver to take him to The Skatalites HQ, a rather run down building in Brixton.

The next few hours it seems were fuelled by Red Stripe, drugs and music with fantastic bass lines. From the PM’s twitter feed, it appears some of his party compatriots, CptChazbeard, WayneKerr and ViciousDeeds leading the charge, had taken Wook on a whirlwind tour of the dingiest clubs and bars that south London could offer.

The next thing the PM’s specialist protection unit knew about the whereabouts of their hairy charge was when Kevin, the work experience boy, saw a youtube video of WookieO dancing naked with an overweight American tourist in the shadow of the Houses of Parliament!


David Brent looked cool, compared to what Wook was doing…



So that was yesterday.

A very hungover and annoyed Prime Minister had woken up in his bed in Downing Street, where ChewChewShoe had thrown him in the early hours, after apologising profusely to the poor copper who then had to spend his morning cleaning his vomit covered helmet.

Today, most of his various ministers had popped by, nobody mentioning the antics of the previous evening. It wasn’t until his Minister of Health, Dr Kawishiwi, had burst into the PM’s study, munching on a large cheese sandwich and asking about donations to the NHS, that Wook’s temper had blown!

“Right, that’s it...I need a holiday!” the enraged furball had barked, making the Doc drop the remnants of his sarnie and scamper out of the room. “I want sun, sand and possibly even some sex...but don’t let Mrs Wook know!” he yelled at no one in particular.


Some scientists claim that it was an incorrectly made cheese sandwich that killed off the dinosaurs…

WookieO had immediately powered up his laptop, logged on to the holidaysforCPs website and booked himself a package to the Canary Islands for three weeks. Finally...some relaxation and some time away from the seemingly endless conflicts too. He had leaned back in his chair, somewhat comforted by this thought.

It was then that he’d finally gotten around to reading the memos marked “Urgent” from Bohemond4. Something about a war between eSpain and eMexico that was centred around….the Canary Islands!!!

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The agonised scream rang out across the London streets. A pigeon, sat on the top of Nelson’s Column, died of anguish after hearing it. Was this the straw that broke the hairy camel’s back?




”Time for a break, Prime Minister?" was taken from the official Wook Memoirs to be released next month in all good book shops.


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