Malcolm Maggot, MP - Part I

Carol’s out tonight with Margaret for Orange Wednesdays. Money's on the new Judi Dench film about old people slowly dying over 140 minutes.

Malcolm didn’t remember how he got to Waterloo. He left HQ at 1025. Now, 6 hours later he found himself recovering his senses and staggering around the vast station on autopilot minus his Samsonite and that nice navy jacket Carol got him from Next. He briefly entertained the thought of nipping into a store and trying to buy a replacement but was distracted by the much more omnipresent pub entrance.

Could I rig that sort of thing up in a few hours? Wouldn’t want her coming home and finding me half dead, calling me an ambulance while administering CPR so feeble I’d need a diaper and pureed meals the rest of my life.

Malcolm had the diminished proportions of a man whose boarding school experiences had never really left him. His hair retained the golden hues of youth though thinned significantly. Rather than a head of hair, his scalp appeared to have an atmosphere. He had the frame of about 50 boxes of cornflakes and weighed roughly the same. If you had to describe Malcolm using one brand of cereal, odds were it would be cornflake.

Staggering into The Rubbermaid’s Arms, he had the appearance of a plastic bag thrown against a fence. He steadied himself and put on his very finest impression of a mildly intoxicated gentleman who still had a morning to gloss over. He planted both hands on the bar and spoke directly to the barmaid, who was in the process of serving an elderly couple, slowly.

“London Pride.” He got out his phone and opened a saved Wikipedia page.

“Honda Civic (hybrid) - 52lbs CO2 per 10 miles compared to petrol engines - around 87lbs CO2 per 10 miles.” That means it will take half as long to kill me. Shit. I’d be lucky to get a fucking headache.

Malcolm closed Wikipedia and put his phone away. The barmaid had mentioned something about a drinks offer which he had agreed to without paying attention to what she said. He walked over to the farthest table he could find with his Pride and two WKDs. He less sat down than collapsed like a pile of clothes thrown from across the room, shirt sleeves and tie only loosely associated with the rest of him. He drank from his London Pride like a child with Ribena.

I'll finish things off once’s Carol’s in bed. No chance of her finding me til the alarm goes off morning. God, this'll fucking show them.

So sat Malcolm Maggot, a suddenly familiar figure sat now obtrusively in the corner under a 40" plasma with his piss-hole eyes and crooked smile looming behind a cross looking John Sergeant. His stained white shirt and loosened tie was a marked contrast to the better presented ensemble on the TV screen above. Breaking News: Malcolm Maggot Resigns as MP - ran the banner across the bottom of BBC One.

He seemed awfully content in that chair, lost in his own thoughts.