In a phrase that must have been pre-ordained from birth by a ferociously ironic Fate it came to be written that Prime Minister Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.
They’d all been called of course, once Jenny Marley had discovered why her now-late husband seemed to be having a longer morning shower than usual. Had she needed to pee a little earlier, perhaps the Prime Minister might still be alive. Mind you, there’s no telling with heart attacks. There’s a good chance that Gordon ‘Singer’ Marley was dead by the time his forehead was cracked open by the protruding faucet in the Marriott Suite overlooking Harley Street in London - and so many doctors nearby! If not - well, the blow would have left him handily unconscious for whatever otherwise writing and agonized seconds would have remained to him before ... resigning office shall we say.
All of that having happened and all the rest about to happen in Ottawa, made the timing of the Prime Minister’s death in London terribly inconvenient for all concerned. Dying there at 7 meant the Governor-General heard at 2:15AM, the Chief of the Privy Council at 2:20, the Minister of External Affairs at 2:27, the Minister of Finance was rung at the same hotel, as was Ed Lauder of the PMO and so on and so on until it was the turn, at 3:08AM precisely, when the Secretary of State for National Unity watched his alarm clock flip over to that time, picked up his cell and found out that there was about to be a leadership race. Yes, the conclusion reached Walter Smith’s mind even before the now jobless Helen Worth’s words finished entering his ear. It was 3:08. it wasn’t going to be good news, now was it?
But 3:08 was an awful time to hear about an 8AM Cabinet Meeting that one really could not afford to be fashionable late in entering. No, it would be important to be seen as one of those rushing, slightly hunched figures with their collar turned up (not to hide the face though) and gripping in the crook of the right arm ... what? ... what to carry? Manila envelopes. Stuffed full. In folders. They would photograph nicely against his camel hair coat. Look! Work is so natural to the man it’s reflected in his clothing! Yes. The image must be established early. It would be important that people would know him almost before they knew his name. “Oh you’re the one who ... I know you!” Yes. Be familiar yet fresh. You only get one chance at a first impression. (How was Walter’s? Yes, I’m going to interrupt the story now and then but not too often. Walter does sound like a shit, doesn’t he? Don’t get turned off to soon. Trust me, he’s not all bad. He’s just a moderately successful politician - a junior Cabinet Minister. They’re the worst sort while they’re there. But - onwards.)
Walter knew it was perhaps not the ethically purest thing to be thinking about leadership races and how he’d look on CTV News Channel, rather than tearing up over the passing of his mentor, Singer Marley. Well, mentor in a way. Walter had delivered 54 critical delegates to him at the 2014 convention. Nothing to sneer at. And it’s not like being named the Secretary of State for National Unity was a major portfolio. Quebec had been quiet for decades - oddly, the Bloc Quebecois had destroyed separatism. Their success in playing deal-making politics during the run of minority Parliaments convinced Quebeckers that they could continue to punch above their weight so long as they kept sending the supposedly separatist party off to Ottawa. So nobody gave a shit about national unity anymore. But it could have been worse. It could have been Natural Resources and Energy aka the Minister of Pollution. If you didn’t turn around global warming in a week you were a pin-striped bastard environmental Holocaust denying son of a bitch sheep who is in bed with Big Oil and Arabs because someone has pictures of you oiling up a big Arab sheep. Baaaaa!
Well, that eliminated Martin Martin from the running anyway. Plus he had a silly name. Plus nobody could ever remember if you pronounced his first name the English way and his second name the French way, or vice versa. Walter looked at himself in the shower mirror and realized that he wasn’t sure which way it went and they had sat more or less across from one another - Walter just slightly further down - at the Cabinet table for three years. Hmm. Imagine that.
Well, on to imagine other things. Walter was not about to start lathering himself up in the shower and find himself thinking about Martin Martin while handling his genitals. Er, his own genitals. Walter’s genitals.
Oh hell.
Now Walter’s mind was stuck on a bizarre image of Martin Martin prancing through a field of dandelions, naked in a sort of Porky Pig way tossing sprigs of wild flowers behind him.
He turned off the water and toweled off. This was going to be a hell of a day.
Walter chose a somber navy suit - nothing flash, although he would stick with the camel coat. Hell, it was December in Ottawa. He debated about what tie to choose. Was it too soon to wear black? Would red be too cheery? Red could be seen as inspirational too. Blue is ... well blue ties are for men who can’t make up their mind. Boring boring, Tory blue. He chose maroon - red with a passionate heart.
Before slipping on his black gloves and grabbing the folders and car keys he looked at himself one last time in the hall mirror. Yes, he looked good for 50 years old, and 50 was early prime time in political years. He drew one greying forelock over his right brow, for a bit of dash, winked one blue eye at himself and quoted from an old Bob Fosse movie ...
“It’s showtime folks.”
They’d all been called of course, once Jenny Marley had discovered why her now-late husband seemed to be having a longer morning shower than usual. Had she needed to pee a little earlier, perhaps the Prime Minister might still be alive. Mind you, there’s no telling with heart attacks. There’s a good chance that Gordon ‘Singer’ Marley was dead by the time his forehead was cracked open by the protruding faucet in the Marriott Suite overlooking Harley Street in London - and so many doctors nearby! If not - well, the blow would have left him handily unconscious for whatever otherwise writing and agonized seconds would have remained to him before ... resigning office shall we say.
All of that having happened and all the rest about to happen in Ottawa, made the timing of the Prime Minister’s death in London terribly inconvenient for all concerned. Dying there at 7 meant the Governor-General heard at 2:15AM, the Chief of the Privy Council at 2:20, the Minister of External Affairs at 2:27, the Minister of Finance was rung at the same hotel, as was Ed Lauder of the PMO and so on and so on until it was the turn, at 3:08AM precisely, when the Secretary of State for National Unity watched his alarm clock flip over to that time, picked up his cell and found out that there was about to be a leadership race. Yes, the conclusion reached Walter Smith’s mind even before the now jobless Helen Worth’s words finished entering his ear. It was 3:08. it wasn’t going to be good news, now was it?
 |
| the romancing of the Canadian voter begins... |
But 3:08 was an awful time to hear about an 8AM Cabinet Meeting that one really could not afford to be fashionable late in entering. No, it would be important to be seen as one of those rushing, slightly hunched figures with their collar turned up (not to hide the face though) and gripping in the crook of the right arm ... what? ... what to carry? Manila envelopes. Stuffed full. In folders. They would photograph nicely against his camel hair coat. Look! Work is so natural to the man it’s reflected in his clothing! Yes. The image must be established early. It would be important that people would know him almost before they knew his name. “Oh you’re the one who ... I know you!” Yes. Be familiar yet fresh. You only get one chance at a first impression. (How was Walter’s? Yes, I’m going to interrupt the story now and then but not too often. Walter does sound like a shit, doesn’t he? Don’t get turned off to soon. Trust me, he’s not all bad. He’s just a moderately successful politician - a junior Cabinet Minister. They’re the worst sort while they’re there. But - onwards.)
Walter knew it was perhaps not the ethically purest thing to be thinking about leadership races and how he’d look on CTV News Channel, rather than tearing up over the passing of his mentor, Singer Marley. Well, mentor in a way. Walter had delivered 54 critical delegates to him at the 2014 convention. Nothing to sneer at. And it’s not like being named the Secretary of State for National Unity was a major portfolio. Quebec had been quiet for decades - oddly, the Bloc Quebecois had destroyed separatism. Their success in playing deal-making politics during the run of minority Parliaments convinced Quebeckers that they could continue to punch above their weight so long as they kept sending the supposedly separatist party off to Ottawa. So nobody gave a shit about national unity anymore. But it could have been worse. It could have been Natural Resources and Energy aka the Minister of Pollution. If you didn’t turn around global warming in a week you were a pin-striped bastard environmental Holocaust denying son of a bitch sheep who is in bed with Big Oil and Arabs because someone has pictures of you oiling up a big Arab sheep. Baaaaa!
Well, that eliminated Martin Martin from the running anyway. Plus he had a silly name. Plus nobody could ever remember if you pronounced his first name the English way and his second name the French way, or vice versa. Walter looked at himself in the shower mirror and realized that he wasn’t sure which way it went and they had sat more or less across from one another - Walter just slightly further down - at the Cabinet table for three years. Hmm. Imagine that.
Well, on to imagine other things. Walter was not about to start lathering himself up in the shower and find himself thinking about Martin Martin while handling his genitals. Er, his own genitals. Walter’s genitals.
Oh hell.
Now Walter’s mind was stuck on a bizarre image of Martin Martin prancing through a field of dandelions, naked in a sort of Porky Pig way tossing sprigs of wild flowers behind him.
He turned off the water and toweled off. This was going to be a hell of a day.
Walter chose a somber navy suit - nothing flash, although he would stick with the camel coat. Hell, it was December in Ottawa. He debated about what tie to choose. Was it too soon to wear black? Would red be too cheery? Red could be seen as inspirational too. Blue is ... well blue ties are for men who can’t make up their mind. Boring boring, Tory blue. He chose maroon - red with a passionate heart.
Before slipping on his black gloves and grabbing the folders and car keys he looked at himself one last time in the hall mirror. Yes, he looked good for 50 years old, and 50 was early prime time in political years. He drew one greying forelock over his right brow, for a bit of dash, winked one blue eye at himself and quoted from an old Bob Fosse movie ...
“It’s showtime folks.”
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