Monday 2nd May 2005
Hopes fade in hunt for missing blind bloke
Nation on tenterhooks as crisis unfolds
by Stowbury
Fears are mounting over the safety of a 57-year-old blind man who went missing ten days ago from his homes. The alarm was raised after he failed to attend an election rally in the Sheffield Brightside constituency where in happier times he lived with his wife and two young lads, building a formidable reputation as the charismatic sleaze-busting leader of the vibrant Labour-run City Council. But those halcyon years of the eighties when he ruled the family roost with a rod of iron and lorded it over the local political scene are now a distant memory for the bruised and battered MP struggling to come to terms with recent upheavals in his personal and professional life. Doctors are worried that the bitter recollections may have suddenly been too much to bear and caused him to dash out of his homes in a desperate bid to put it all behind him, with his startled guide dog in hot pursuit and without stopping to take his medication. If he's not found soon there's no knowing what self-harm he might do.
Detectives searched high and low for Mr Blunkett throughout the imposing six-bedroom villa that he owns on the edge of the Peak District just a short drive from his Sheffield constituency office and recently updated to a high standard by enthusiastic local taxpayers at a cost of £45,000. But no clue could they find as to his whereabouts, no whimpering beast was discovered grieving over her stone-cold master's body, his head cracked open in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs. The domestic staff were quizzed but were unable to shed any light.
"No significant leads at this time," the Chief Constable of Derbyshire Police was forced to announce to an anxious public, all too keenly aware that the big-hearted local hero who put Sheffield politics on the map and takes pride of place in the city's Hall of Fame has an Achilles heel that has got him into trouble on more than one occasion in the past. His straightforward trusting nature leaves him cruelly exposed to the machinations of those cynical street-wise slappers who can spot him coming a mile off, that type of predatory good-time girl who licks her lips in pleasure at the thought of taking a poor blind devil for a ride as she dips into her handbag, quickly lifts her top and loosens each bra strap in turn, nimbly extricating one tit, then the other, for a liberal dousing of Givenchy Eau Torride before popping them back into place and advancing towards her prey.
After climbing to almost the very top branch of the political tree Mr Blunkett tragically lost his footing in a pre-Christmas pantomime that had the nation rolling in the aisles at the start of the festive season, wiping £73,000 off the value of his salary, and he now lives in much reduced circumstances on the £57,000 basic of a common-or-garden MP. The forlorn bachelor cuts a poignant figure on his daily constitutional outings on the Pennine hills and in the streets of his beloved home town, unfailingly clad in a favourite old mac smeared with the greasy residue of many a sloppy fish supper shared with his canine companion Lucy who is never far from his side. Escorted by his four-legged female friend, he greets every passing acquaintance with an excess of back-slapping, a brush of his lice-ridden beard, wild eyes roving, his affectionate poking and ribbing and cackling laughter conquering their slightly alarmed reserve.
Derbyshire and South Yorkshire Constabularies were about to scale up the search in a joint operation to comb every nook and cranny in the two counties when Yorkshire Chief Constable Meredydd Hughes had a sudden brainwave. "Hang on a minute — hold your horses lads. He might be down London way in South Eaton Terrace!"
The fabulous four-storey Regency mansion in its high-walled grounds in the heart of exclusive Belgravia just a short hop from Westminster is the official London residence of the Home Secretary, fully kitted out with the latest in hi-tech security and benefiting from 24/7 operational cover based out of New Scotland Yard — all in the interests of protecting the holder of the most sensitive post in government from any untoward attack. Normally of course you would expect the real Home Secretary to be living there, but David was such a popular figure among his staff, especially in the Immigration and Nationality Department where he popped in almost every day to discuss the odd passport or visa application and have a bit of a grope with the secretaries, that when it came to his resignation they simply had to do something to show their support and threatened to resign en masse if anyone even thought of taking away those hard-earned privileges of high office that had become so part and parcel of what David was all about that he'd be a broken man without them.
Besides which it was hardly worth going to all the bother of getting the removal men round when the chances were he'd be back there again in his official capacity in a few months' time when all the fuss had died down. Caretaker appointee Charles Clarke, a disappointing Blunkett protégé who according to his mentor "hasn't developed as I'd hoped", knows his place only too well and was quite happy to take the advice of the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Sir Ian Blair and stay in his own London home, now upgraded to the same standard of security as South Eaton Terrace, SW1. A hefty expense for the obliging taxpayer but in the words of the Chief Commissioner "well worth it".
As Sir Ian explains: "We've got a saying in the Met: 'Nothing's too much trouble when it comes to our old mate Blunkers.' He was the copper's Home Secretary, the everyday bloke making law on the hoof and telling it like it is. He knew how to make friends and influence people, did David. But let's hear it for the taxpayers too," he added. "They've been fantastic as always, digging deep into their pockets and stumping up all that extra cash to keep a great man where he belongs without even needing to be asked."
The Commissioner was interrupted by an urgent call. The colour drained from his face as he took in the grim news. No trace in Belgravia either — he hadn't been back there for a week. Time was running out for the vulnerable Sheffield MP. "He'll be teetering on the edge by now," the fervent Blunkett aficionado explained. "He's so easily led by anything in a skirt, provided she's five out of ten or above. If she's seven or more he's a goner."
This was an unexpected insight into the predilections of the unsighted populist icon. You might think he would be ill-equipped to implement those particular standards, but that's where Lucy really comes into her own. According to Sir Blair the faithful guide-dog has a highly refined sense of smell and barks her approval of any decent passing snatch, causing David to salivate, turn smartly and grab the young lady by the shoulders, thrusting his manky chin between soft yielding globes to assess her child-rearing potential. The brazen hussy shamelessly exploits her victim by letting him nuzzle her titties for a full minute until he's so deeply in love he'll have promised her the post of Permanent Secretary to the Cabinet Office in the next round of government patronage, with a number of mid-range sinecures for her close relations thrown in.
The situation had clearly reached crisis point and it was time for the government to act. With the day's top election event drawing to a close the departing Cabinet Ministers were hastily reconvened and came out onto the platform again to launch an impassioned nationwide appeal.
"David, if you're listening," the Prime Minister himself began, "please come back. We all miss you and so do the electorate. Quite honestly, the campaign's been a damp squib without you."
This was a sentiment wholly endorsed by the Chancellor. "It's been a dreary campaign without you, David," he ruefully acknowledged. "Remember all those glorious arguments we used to have late into the night about who was the biggest bully? There's no-one to challenge me any more and keep me on my toes. Come back, David, do, and give me a run for my money."
Then it was the turn of Jack Straw, who struck a more apologetic note. "I'm really, really sorry David, about leaving the Home Office in such a mess that time you had to come in and use the place after me, leaving you to clean it all up before you could get down to work. It was deeply inconsiderate and I'm thoroughly ashamed," the contrite Foreign Secretary avowed. "I just want you to know if there's anything I can do to make it up to you, you only have to ask. Do come back, David, I... I... " he blubbered, overcome with emotion and had to be led away.
Now Tessa Jowell stepped forward, one of the ex-Home Secretary's closest associates in government who knew him for the bold, decisive, sometimes arrogant man he was, warts and all. She composed herself, took the microphone, but then a sudden thought struck her and she blurted out: "Just a minute! He might be in Wimbledon!"
Sir Ian Blair cursed. "Idiot! Fool!" he muttered, and rapped himself severely on the knuckles. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that himself? Blunkett's third home, a modest Victorian three up three down situated on a pleasant turning a stone's throw from Henman Hill, rented out at £22,000 a year, an indispensable supplement to his meagre parliamentary income now that his three months' Cabinet severance pay had run out. The embarrassed Commissioner, desperate to make good his lapse, was on to the Merton force in a flash.
But the valiant Met drew a blank in SW19 too. David had not retaken possession of his South London property nor was he found hobnobbing with the tenants in the front parlour. Things were now looking black indeed. If Sir Ian's premonition was right then there was little more that could be done. The Cabinet's efforts had come too late. A dreadful scene was undoubtedly already underway.
...
The outrageous flirt toys with her middle-aged conquest, pulling away coquettishly so that he's forced to dig his hand savagely into her crotch to stop her reneging on the clearly understood contract. Now the prick-teasing tart utters a piercing cry of "Let go!" even while indulging in playful slaps to her newfound lover's cheek, leading him on to believe that the long years of purgatory are over and he's found his perfect playmate at last. No more false dawns of heavenly bliss followed by bitter disappointment — tears fill the eyes of the modestly well-off bloke as he invites the young lady to make a long-cherished dream come true and fill the outstanding role of Mrs Blunkett the second, subject to routine police checks and the formality of whether she can take it up the arse as uncomplainingly as his constituents. With wedding bells pealing in his head he bends the lass over, and aided by growling Lucy's vice-like jaw clamping those troublesome flailing hands he engages the feisty vixen from behind in a textbook execution of the critical test.
...
A frisson of foreboding chills the Cabinet when the Wimbledon latest comes in. Tessa now throws caution to the wind, grabbing the mike determined to give eveything she's got while the slightest glimmer of hope remains. "David, David," she pleads, "you were so right, I'm a weak, weak woman," she calls out to him, wherever he might be. "Oh why didn't I listen to you and stay at home where I belong? Why do they do it, humour us into thinking we can handle the pressure when we know deep down we'll never be able to run with the boys. I'm just what you always said, a wishy-washy, weak-willed woman who doesn't know what she wants. Look at me! A Cabinet Minister? Ha!"
There was an impromptu round of applause from her Cabinet colleagues for a gutsy performance by the Minister for Sport and TV. The self-confessed pushover then went on to cite numerous examples to back up her case — humiliating occasions when she had made confident announcements to the House, only to pathetically back down at the very first hint of an opposing male point of view, culminating in the most recent débâcle over the plans for 24-hour on-line gambling on BBC2 as the most appropriate funding mechanism in the light of 21st century realities, but caving in to the Director General Mark Thompson when he said he'd rather keep the licence fee instead.
Roused by her commendable spirit into believing that all was not yet lost, another of David's closest former colleagues took centre stage and sought to lighten the mood, as perhaps a more effective way of getting through to his estranged chum.
"David old bean," Charles Clarke began, "do you remember that hilarious moment in Cabinet, oh it must be two years ago now, when you stood up to make your point and grabbed hold of one of my big flapping ears, yanking me to my feet beside you? 'Look at Dumbo!' you said. 'Thinks he's in charge of Education now, but doesn't know a birch from a cat o' nine tails, the big soft baby elephant pansy prancing about like a ponce in his second-hand nappies!' It was quite a tribute. I've hung on your coat tails in one department after another trying to learn the tricks of the trade but never in my wildest dreams did I expect that kind of recognition."
It was a heroic attempt to postpone the inevitable. But it was time for the Commissioner to step in and come clean with the British people concerning the fate that had almost certainly overtaken the bluff yet easily manipulated Sheffield Brightside representative.
"The foreign bints are the worst," he explained. "They'll stop at nothing to get what they want. I've seen it happen so many times before in and around the Yard. Shaking their goods about, giving the come on, that seductive swaying of the hips in the passionate struggle with an honest admirer just paying his respects until he's so thoroughly bewitched that before he knows it he's given it all away." The Commissioner shuddered as he invited the nation to ponder the hideous trap that the lovestruck bachelor might have just blundered into in the arms of some ruthless Balkan bitch, losing his head in an access of frenzied passion and rubber-stamping the migration of her beloved, impoverished home village of Scrownja in the Romanian hinterland to the UK on a specially chartered Airbus 380 with fast-track naturalisation on board and a handy welcome pack of passport and CORGI registration dished out to the grateful passengers on arrival.
Sitting behind him, the politicians bowed their heads in sad resignation. Charles Clarke felt the worst of all, since it was he who bore the brunt of inevitable comparison with his illustrious predecessor. "Actually though, on the issue of face fungus I think I've done pretty well," he was pointing out to his neighbour Gordon Brown. "Mine's even mangier than his, but that's about as far as it goes. In every other respect I'm a pretty poor excuse for a Home Secretary — pompous, old-fashioned and out of time."
At this last remark Gordon started. "What did you say?"
They stared at each other, as the wheels of inspiration whirred and the solution clicked into place. The first trace of a smile broke on Gordon's glum face and swept through onto Clarke's. Soon they were grinning broadly. Now they leaped up as one, and danced a merry jig. "Get onto the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary!" Clarke called over his shoulder to Sir Ian as he gave Gordon a little twirl.
Old-fashioned and out of time! A synonym for Prince Charles, landlord of the Duchy of Cornwall Estate. And down in that South-West peninsula there was yet one more house of David that nobody had checked, a tidy little cottage that he'd leased from the bountiful Duchess of Devonshire since the eighties at a peppercorn rent as a handy retreat, a highly convenient love-nest for the occasional spot of playing away should the opportunity arise. That, surely, was where he would be found.
It was no time for niceties. In a last, desperate throw of the dice an emergency squadron of Cornish police broke down the cottage door and raced upstairs to the bedroom, kicking that one in too in the rush to confirm the Brown-Clarke hypothesis and find a grinning David Blunkett tucked up in bed, with Lucy curled at his feet and a tasty bit of crumpet on the side.
In the last harrowing moments before the curtain fell Ms Jowell rent her dripping blouse asunder, bravely yanked out her boobs to the mixed delight and horror of the prime-time audience and gave it her final shot. "David, we can't make it without you, please, please come back. These are yours, David, for what they're worth if you'll only come back." Unpractised in the art of seduction, she didn't think to push her modest endowments up and together to make them look bigger, or to pout and brush back a strand of loose hair as she pointed her nipples to camera.
Nevertheless, what man of honour could ignore the emotional force of her appeal? A blind one perhaps. The hearts of the viewing public went out to her as she suddenly realised her mistake and dropped to the floor in embarrassment, yet still clutching the microphone in her hand, breathing across the land the cherished name of the absent hero as her colleagues gathered round in support and the dramatic transmission faded out.
Next week
Joy unconfined in Derbyshire, Wimbledon, Cornwall and Belgravia — bearded gimp flees torrid sexploitation at hands of notorious West End vice ring and returns safe and sound to his homes.