Authors Electric

  This is the seventh, and ultimate, monthly chapter in the saga of an ex-prime minister - unless, of course, something else interesting happens ... “Dancing?” Teddy looked entirely non-plussed by the word. “Are you sure I’m the right man for the job?” “It’s the most popular programme in the country at the moment,” Ding pointed out. “You put on some pretty spectacular shows on dance floors in your youth,” Puppy reminded him. “Did I?” Teddy squinted hard, as if trying to conjure up a picture of his past. “I don’t remember that.” “No, well,” Ding shrugged, “you were usually pretty loaded.” “But you had a pretty good natural rhythm,” Puppy interjected. “The girls always seemed pretty impressed.” “Ah, yes,” Teddy’s eyes misted over. “The girls. They all like a chap with a few natty moves.” “Indeed,” Ding said, “so you are booked to be on the next series. Rehearsals start next week.” The producers at Strictly had a number of heated meetings around the subject of which of...

  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...