Blair wows parliament with record-breaking statesmanhood (Pub-friendly) [The Rockall Times]

The Prime Minister's qualities of leadership and gutsy determination were severely tested this month, but he came through with flying colours, forcing those critics who had written him off as a lame duck to eat humble pie. He had hardly initiated the delicate negotiations on global warming at the G8 summit on Thursday 7 July before he was called back to London to manage the growing crisis at COBRA in the wake of the terrorist bombs. There was a rising tide of panic in the briefing room as it gradually dawned on horrified members of the all-powerful national emergencies committee that the roly-poly jug-eared oaf who'd barged his competitors out of the way to grab the comfiest leather armchair, where he was now immersed in a blissful slumber, his mangy beard irrigated by a trickle of drool that issued from the corner of his mouth, was supposed to be the man at the helm, charged with co-ordinating the programme of rapid-response activities and generally telling them what to do.

Blair: Zeal Displaying all his old fiery zeal, Mr Blair turned the situation around within minutes of arrival, launching a full-blooded counter-invective against the perpetrators of the outrage that rekindled in his proud London audience the defiant spirit of the Blitz. Hardly pausing to take a bow, he flew back to Gleneagles for a serious bout of diplomatic brinkmanship, knocking recalcitrant heads of state together until he got the all-important agreement on the poverty-busting agenda that he was looking for. Aided by the smooth tongue of Straw and the brassy bluster of Beckett, he worked those inveterate squabblers Chirac, Bush, Putin et al long into the night with a combination of flattery, cajolery and the best in British cuisine until they all agreed to put their differences aside and sign up to a unanimous resolution that they really must do it again next year.

Nevertheless, there was concern in Westminster at the immense reserves of political will that were expended on these twin triumphs. It had taken a severe toll, according to some, on Mr Blair's notoriously delicate heart. But with the nation's security at stake, the Prime Minister was not to be dissuaded from giving his all, whatever the risk to his health. As the parliamentary session drew to a close he was grimly focused on this one key objective, striving to break his own world record of thirteen days and eleven hours for a non-stop tirade against the malevolent armies of orcs and homunculi called forth by Satan and living undetected in our midst, programmed to stop at nothing in their futile quest to destroy our deeply-held democratic values and peaceful way of life.

As the days rolled by with no sign of a let up there was increasing anxiety etched on the foreheads of his closest advisors. Cherie was beside herself with worry, drained as she was by months of constant lecturing on her own account, albeit in a lighter vein, without so much as a proper family holiday since early April. All things considered, the summer recess couldn't come too soon.

By Thursday 21 July he was visibly winding down. The inspiring words were now coming in short, painful bursts between extensive pauses for reflection as to which combination of emphatic gesture and self-evident truth to use next in what would surely prove to be the defining speech of his third term. 632 spellbound representatives of the nation willed him on towards the finishing post of an historic oration that combined the bulldog spirit of Churchill with the loquacity of that great 19th century filibusterer Charles Stewart Parnell.

The twelve peals of Big Ben sounded noon and the greatest statesman of our time entered on the fourteenth day of his epoch-making declaration, re-affirming his utter resolve to carry on just as before, giving no quarter and taking no prisoners in the ceaseless struggle to make himself absolutely clear.

It was only when the news came through of another four-bomb attack on the capital, identical in almost every respect to the last one except that it hardly even scratched the paintwork of the targeted bus and three tubes, that he felt able to relax. After two solid weeks of superhuman effort at the podium involving thirty-six changes of shirt the message was finally getting through to the emissaries of hell that their dastardly mission was in vain. The government's anti-terror initiatives rolled out by COBRA since 7/7 had clearly got Satan on the back foot, within the zone one perimeter at least.

At 12:45 pm the gut-busting orator fell back into the arms of his front-bench colleagues, faint with exhaustion. The bell sounded again, signalling the end of term, and the liberated MPs flooded out of the building with whoops of delight at the start of their extended fact-finding missions to Antigua, Bermuda and the Seychelles. The British people were plunged into their annual ordeal of having to muddle through somehow without any new legislation for three long nerve-wracking months and only a skeleton force of decent quality speechmakers plus Prescott on emergency call.

On doctor's orders the nation's premier couple postponed the start of their own villa-hopping mid-year break and repaired to Chequers for a quiet fortnight with friends, giving Tony's heart time to recover and Cherie a much-needed breathing space to mull over a tough choice that had crept up on her all too quickly and which could not be put off for much longer. Nominations close at the end of the month and she still hasn't decided in her own mind whether or not she will stand, let alone publicly declared her intention.

This is the question on everyone's lips. Will she or won't she? Three times winner of the glittering prize on the trot, "two-flats" Cherie stormed through the field in December 2002 at the height of the Stephen Foster affair to claim her first crown, and since then she's been untouchable. Her peerless ball-juggling skill in holding down a £250,000 job as a top-flight QC while still being a good wife and mother and maximising the spin-off revenue of her lucrative celebrity marriage is the reason why bubbly Cherie has been the face of New Labour womanhood for the past three remarkable years, her pleasant smile adorning the party's recruitment posters with its famous gaping allure.

As the chairman of the 2004 judges panel put it: "Our radiant first lady exemplifies the quintessential virtues of a truly modern New Labour cash cow. She lines her own pockets, feathers her nest, and makes hay while the sun shines with an honest, harpie-like intensity unmatched by her more circumspect rivals."

It seems clear that if the honourable Cherie Blair QC throws her hat into the ring for an historic fourth time then her more principled challengers can jump up and down on the spot all they like going "Me! Me! Me!", but no-one will be around to notice. Come Christmas the coveted crown and sceptre that goes with victory in New Labour's annual pageant of feminine grace and achievement will remain securely locked in the trophy cabinet at Number 10.

But extraordinary rumours are afoot of a possible plan to step down. There's a growing feeling in the grass roots that some of the spark has gone out of the contest with Mrs Blair's supreme dominance in recent years. Her inexorable stately progress towards the title has kindled a sense of nostalgia for the traditional shin-kicking, hair-pulling spectacles of old, and may have convinced the three-times champion that it's time to retire from the spotlight and give fresh blood a chance.

Cherie Blair: Dignity But it takes some doing to voluntarily abdicate the throne which she has occupied with such dignity for so long, not to mention the sponsorship deals that naturally accrue to the incumbent. No wonder she's in a quandary. This is the toughest decision that any New Labour lady could face. And Tony's no use. He's flat on his back in the billiard room getting some well-earned relief from his two closest advisors. In any case it's a girl thing — only another woman can feel and understand those pangs of conflicting desire that rage in her vulnerable core.

Her husband would not be amused if he knew who she was dialling now for some soothing advice — a persona non grata at Number 10, the spiritual guru and lifestyle coach to the great and good, Carole Caplin, barred in 2003 after one silly mistake in the bedroom, when her elegant design makeover of the formerly frumpy QC went a shade too far. The ravishing disco blue that she applied to the lips of the eminent barrister for that extra bit of sparkle in court did not go down well with the crusty Chief Justice presiding that day, and is considered by the Blairs' fund managers at Number 10 to be the main reason she lost that particular case, and with it one of her biggest corporate clients.

Once again The Rockall Times has stolen a march on its flat-footed rivals. We bring you an astonishing insight into the interior life of the prime ministerial consort, courtesy of an exclusive interview with her one-time life-coach, stylist and fitness instructor, and still her most intimate confidante on the phone, the admirably loyal Ms Caplin.

The blue-chip consultant snapped her purse shut on the wad of notes and began.

"Jesus, if it wasn't heart-breaking. Two years without my personal touch and she can hardly cope any more...

'Carole, Carole,' she says, 'I don't know if I ought to run. I'm not as popular as I was.'

And I'm like — Hello?! You're the first lady, what's 'popular' got to do with it? But I mustn't be rough with her. Her confidence is at rock-bottom. 'Don't be silly, love,' I tell her, 'Go for it! If the crown fits, wear it! You've earned it, you deserve all that's coming to you.'

And she's like: 'Well, yes, but ...'

And I'm telling her: 'No buts, just go for it!'

She's a wreck, the poor girl, she's lost all the self-esteem I gave her. 'I know, I know, I shouldn't worry,' she says, 'But I can't help it ... when it comes to the swimwear section ... I'm not getting any younger.'

And I'm like: 'Nonsense, darling, I wish had your balance and poise, you'll knock them for six.' I've got my fingers crossed of course. I've just got to say anything I can to lift her.

Then she goes: 'Tony says my bottom's dropped another three inches since last year.'

And I'm like: 'Don't listen to that loser! We both know he won't look twice at an arse that's not covered in hair, with a nice bit of tackle visible between the legs.'

I'm telling you, what she's had to put up with, it's a fuc*king nightmare. If I could only be with her on the bedside where I belong ... 'Get a grip, love,' I tell her. 'Take it from me, when you do your little twirl up there in that gorgeous bikini of yours the judges' eyes will pop out on stalks.'

I'm getting through to her now, I'm bringing her round. 'Do you really think so?' she says. 'But which one should I wear, Carole? The candyfloss pink or the leopard skin?'

And I'm like — oh my God, she's completely lost it! 'Cherie, love, keep calm, stay right where you are, don't move an inch, I'll be there right away.'

And she's like: 'But, but...'

And I'm telling her: 'No, love, trust me. This time I'll scream blue murder until they let me in, it's a fuc*king constitutional crisis!'"

"Goodness! What happened next?" pressed our correspondent, agog with excitement. "Did you get past security? How did you resolve the crisis?"

But the glamorous fixer of celebrity wardrobe woe pointed to her watch. "Sorry love, you've had your five minutes. I must dash now — an important client down at Belmarsh. Can't decide between arrows or stripes on his pyjamas."

Next week

The nominations are in — the top contenders for Miss Quintessentially New Labour 2005 stake their claim to the title and strut their stuff in a preview gala at Chequers.

Blair wows parliament with record-breaking statesmanhood

Next week

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