Authors Electric

 The third monthly installment of  our hero's adventures as he dances through the minefields of life and politics. “Mixed bag of responses,” Puppy said as he scrolled through the pollsters’ findings on his phone the day after the program was broadcast. “Almost exactly fifty-fifty.” “Fifty-fifty what?” Teddy dragged his tired eyes up from the blank diary page he had been working on, or at least thinking about. “Well, fifty per cent of the people who watched you on Bake-off thought you were hilarious, and believe you should be allowed to bring your own peculiar brand of gaiety back to Number Ten.” “And the other fifty?” “The other fifty can’t believe the British public ever allowed such a clown to get into Number Ten in the first place.” “Bloody photographers!” Teddy grumbled. “I’m sure they airbrushed that photo to make me look like Coco the Clown.” “Not sure they had to, Mate,” Puppy sighed. “You pretty much did your own flour-based make-up in there. The one thing ...

  Chapter One   “My God, what is that stink?” Puppy merely nodded in the direction of the figure slumped in his favourite armchair, allowing a reverberation from deep in the feather cushions to answer for him. “Oh,” Ding said, “him. It smells like he’s rotting from the inside.” “Was it not always thus?” Puppy asked, forcing open the nearest sash window, allowing the traffic sounds from the Square into the stuffy room. “Has he been drinking?” Ding gestured to the half full glass precariously gripped in Teddy’s huge fist. “Wouldn’t you? It’s been a hell of a few days.” Ding sank into a tall sofa, the sides of which were held up with what looked like the dressing gown cords of giants, and Puppy gave their slumbering friend a vicious kick on the shins. “Wake up Teddy! Ding’s here.” “Yarooooh”, the newly defenestrated prime minister protested as he was jerked back to consciousness, rubbing his ankle ruefully, and slopping the remains of the scotch onto the faded...