Meeting the Prime Minister
It was just after midday that I arrived at Downing Street. The heavily armed police officer at the gate asked for my ID and details of my meeting.
"I'm here to see the PM" I said nervously as I fumbled for my driving license and the letter confirming today's appointment.
"I see". The officer looked me up and down. "Not really dressed for it are you? Head on over to Number 10. Not through the front though. That's just for important people and photo ops".
I slipped through the gate and headed for No. 10, slightly chastened by the man's comments on my attire. Kitted out in the finest Primark fabrics, I felt my suit showed a level of respect befitting a meeting with the most powerful elected official in the UK.
As directed, I headed in via the side door, stepping across the threshold and into the heart of the UK government as so many dignitaries, power brokers and celebrities had before me.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. Not overwhelming by any means, but present in the air inside number 10 was a ripe hum, similar to a toddler's soiled clothing. It wasn't exactly awful, but it smelt bad and it was impossible to ignore.
A grey SPAD approached.
"You must be the 12:15 for the PM". Not a question, but a statement.
"Head up the stairs, first door. The Prime Minister is expecting you. Don't touch anything." The man fixed me with his tired watery eyes. "You've got ten minutes with him".
I walked towards the stairs, the pungent odour increasing slightly as I approached the sturdy oak bannister. I turned to the SPAD. A small black fly had settled on him.
"I'm really sorry, but what is that smell?" I asked.
"What are you talking about?" he replied. A hint of accusation. Two small flies settled now.
"It smells in here. Can't you smell anything?" I tried to explain. Confusion, doubting my nose.
"I honestly don't know what you mean. Better get up those stairs, the Prime Minister is extremely busy." A warning not to probe any further.
I turned back and began the ascent.
The smell grew worse with each step. The mild tang from the lobby had become a rich vegetable infusion. Approaching the midway landing, the odour became almost unbearable. I covered my nose with my hand and tried to push on, breathing through my mouth to try and avoid the toxic fug. This soon proved fruitless as my lungs were choked by the shitty, acrid air. I was transported back to the burning portaloo at Reading, white clouds of flaming shit and plastic billowing out into the night sky whilst the Killers continued on in the background. I heaved, eyes watering but determined to push on to my meeting with the PM.
Hauling myself up the last flight of stairs, the smell of shit grew ever worse, as did the clouds of black flies buzzing around. I tried to remind myself that meeting the Prime Minister was an immense privilege reserved only for the wealthy and connected, and that I should count myself lucky. With slight relief, I reached the top of the stairs, a sharp urea smell now mingling with the dank stench of shit. The Lulu Lytle wallpaper here was yellowed and speckled with black mould. The carpet, still visible as a rich British Racing Green in patches was mainly damp and worn. I stepped on to the landing directly into a yellowish puddle edged with a grey foam. Trying to skirt around the puddle, I realised that the whole landing was awash with what appeared to be piss, crystallizing around the skirting boards and the kneel post. I gagged again. What the hell was going on?
Ahead of me as the advisor had promised was the PM's office. What had once been a majestic oak door was smeared in shit, the bronze handle corroded and green. Skid marks tracked from the staircase to the doorway and I stepped gingerly towards it, tiptoeing through the puddles of urine, choking back vomit that was building in my throat.
I reached out for the door handle, hesitant to touch it, covered as it was with what appeared to be faecal matter. I held my nose and was about to prod the thing open with a biro when it swung ajar sending a small wave of piss and shit out into the office. The urine was up to my ankles now, soaking through my shoes and into my socks.
A man came out, head bowed. I think I recognised him as an MP for some safe seat in the Shires. He appeared have have faeces smeared about his face, his arms brown and orange with shit up to his elbows, his trousers damp with floor piss. His eyes briefly met mine, a sad apologetic look about him. He pushed past me and continued back down the stairs, barely concerned by the black clouds of flies, tracking poo as he shuffled away.
I braced myself and entered the Prime Minister's office. read more