April 10th, 1997.
Ken Livingstone wandered anxiously around his downstairs hall. He had been waiting for this call for a couple of days at that point, going out disappointed. He knew he would be told last. He always knew. At least it was John, but there was no guarantee John would last. It was his heart, you see. Ken knew that everyone surrounding John was just waiting for him to die. That miserable fucker Gordon Brown, that clean-shaven smiling bastard Blair who looked like he was off a Nazi propaganda poster. It was John’s decision in the end. The portfolio would probably be local government. He knew it inside and out, from his GLC days, how to build a communit-
Ring ring.
Ken took a deep breath and answered the call. A familiar, Scottish voice rang through.
”Ken?”
“Hello, John.“
“I’ve heard you’ve been waiting. I got you something. London’s without government, and you know more about the place than anyone sitting in parliament. How does some kind of Minister for London sound?“
Ken sat in stunned silence for a moment, sorting through the various possibilities in his head.
”John, the- Brown, and Blair, and the others-“
”I can handle them.” A throaty chuckle came through. “Just, for God’s sake, Ken, don’t say anything about the IRA. We have our work set out for us out there, and we can’t have a government minister spouting about conspiracies.”
Ken, his contrarian nature dulled briefly, exhaled. “Yeah, fine.”
”Alright.” A heavy cough. “Just be careful. I’ll meet you tomorrow, at 9am at Headquarters. We’ll discuss limits on what you can do. Keep in mind, Ken, you cannot use this as a platform to shout about the party.”
Ken nodded, but, realising he was on the phone, said “Yes, of course. I understand.”
“Alright.” John said again. “I’ll see you then. Goodbye.”
He put down the phone.
Ken immediately fiddled around with the touch-tone pad, typing in a number as fast as possible.
The phone picked up almost immediately.
”John. Minister for London.”
”I would have preferred an economic portfolio.”
The voice of John Ross, the “former” Trotskyist and friend who Ken dragged around to help with his dirty work sounded slightly bemused.
”Fuck’s sake, John, you get to design the economic functioning of the entire region of Greater London, and you’re not happy unless I get Chancellor,” Ken said.
”I understand you’re overjoyed, but we did simulations, worked for hours.“ Ross said, referring to the computer simulations he and Ken worked on for a healthy socialist society.
”You control London, you control the second most-powerful position in the country.” Ken leaned against the wall, idly. “As Minister, I’m council leader in waiting, or if it doesn’t come to that, Mayor–In-Waiting. Same way Donald Dewar, the slimy old fuck, is going to control the new Scottish Parliament. All I need to do is stay on TV and smile to the cameras, and we‘ll be set.”
”Will you have me to advise in an official capacity?”
“Depends on how far a leash they’re putting me on. They know I know London, but they think I know it too well.”
“You know they’re going to try and clean you up.”
”Smith made that clear. I have no issue being cleaned up, as long as I can fix Thatcher’s sabotage.”
“You won’t be able to say anything about Palestine.”
”John, I’m not going to refuse.”
”I never said I wanted you to. I just want you to know what you’re doing.”
Ken sighed. “Alright, John, I’m going to call the rest of the group. I’ll call you again tomorrow.”
”Alright, goodbye, Ken.”
The line went dead.
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I was bored so I wrote something
I don’t even know if it’s any good