The Referendum

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This story is purely fictional. Any similarities with events or real people, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

“They are going to bloody win aren’t they?” The PM slammed his hand down on the desk. His Personal Private Secretary stood motionless letting the prime-minister work through his rage. “I stake my political reputation on this bloody referendum and we’re going to lose it.” He thumped the table again. “I’m ruined.” The PPS still remained silent. He was used to the PM’s anger cycles.

“All of this, two of my best friends betraying me, sharing a stage with that awful new mayor, and for what? To lose my bloody job in humiliation.” The PM slumped in his seat and held his head in his hands. The PPS moved his weight from one foot to the other and watched the Prime Minster’s shoulders twitch. He was actually crying. This was new, the PPS hadn’t seen him cry before. He hadn’t even shed a tear over those lewd rumours that had surfaced last year.

The phone on the desk next to the slumped PM rang. The PM threw out an arm sending the phone clattering across the office.

“All the bloody good things I’ve done,” the PM mumbled between sobs, “and I’ll be remembered as the idiot who lost the referendum.” He blew his nose and looked around the room through blood-shot eyes. He seemed surprised to see his PPS standing there.

“Sir, we have to go. We have an appearance at a rally on the other side of the city.” The PPS said.

“What’s the fucking point?” The PM replied, but he rose from his seat nonetheless and headed to the en-suite bathroom. “Give me a few minutes,” he said and closed the door.

The car glided through the streets of the capital city. Streets the PM used to love, but now he hated.

“Sir,” the PPS said, he flicked a switch that stopped the driver and the protection officer from listening to their conversation.  “What if we had to cancel the referendum?”

“Impossible,” the PM said. “How do my eyes look?”

“Your eyes are fine and nothing’s impossible sir.”

The PM took another swig of whiskey; it was the only thing getting him through the days these days.

“Only the death of senior royal would allow us to cancel the referendum.”

The PPS looked at the PM. The PM had never seen him look so sinister.  

“Nonsense, not even we can do that.” The PM waved his hand and straighten his tie. They’d arrived at their destination.

“You’re listening to the Morning Programme on National Radio, with the Referendum just forty-eight hours away the PM has admitted that winning is going to be a ‘hard task’”

The PM slammed his hand on the desk.

“We’re ten points down in the opinion polls. How on earth are we ten points down?” His PPS and the Chancellor both knew it was a rhetorical question.

“We’ve got to do something, anything.” The chancellor of the exchequer said. “Or else we both lose our jobs.”

The PM and his PPS exchanged a glance. Both men nodded slightly. The PPS turned and quietly left the office.

“You’re listening National Radio. We interrupt this programme to bring you grave news from the Royal Palace…”