His wife, Samantha, walked into the room. She was wearing a pink jumpsuit, orange high heels and a yellow feather boa around her neck. David sighed to himself. “Oh look at you”, Samantha said to him, “you’re sweating like a BNP voter in a mosque.”

David looked down and saw dark blue patches under his armpits. Was it any wonder he was sweating? He thought angrily to himself. Lately his dreams about George Osborne had become more frequent, more vivid. Last night Cameron dreamt that he was visiting the Blue Planet Aquarium, he was enjoying looking at the varied aquatic life that inhabit our planet. Stingrays, sharks, clown fish. When he noticed swimming alongside them was a naked George Osborne. George waved through the glass at David. David looked around. Could nobody else see this? He tentatively waved back. George tapped his head twice with his forefinger before turning and swimming away.

“What?” David asked in reply to his wife.

“You’re sweating,” Samantha replied with a loving smile, “there is nothing we cn do now about your shirt but we can change your tie at least.”

David looked down at his dark blue tie. “What’s wrong with this tie?”

“Well it doesn’t scream ‘I’m in charge’ does it?” Samantha reached into her right hand pocket. “Here, take this and put it on.”

Samantha passed her husband something wrapped in blue tissue paper. David unwrapped it. It was a blue dickie-bow with yellow and red polka dots.

Samantha smiled at him. “I have been watching that Mr Tumble on CBeebies, he has a yellow bag with dots on it and everybody loves him.”

“I don’t think she shouts out ‘Prime Minister in charge’ love.” David replied.

“Fine!” Samantha huffed. “If you don’t want me to help then I shall not!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll wear it.” David undid his blue tie and put on the dickie-bow in its place. The intercom on David’s desk buzzed. David walked towards it and press the answer button. “Yes?”

“The Chancellor of the Exchequer sir.”

“Send him in”

Samantha smiled at her husband. “Good luck,” she wished David, “I’ll pop out now and do some clothes shopping.”

Samantha Cameron walked out of the room as George Osborne entered. They smiled at each other before Osborne went to the Prime Minister. They shook hands formally. “Prime Minister,” said Osborne looking at Prime Minister’s dickie-bow.

“A present from my wife.”

“Well,” replied George Osborne, “I too have a present for you.” David took a step backwards, sweat started pouring down his forehead. George reached into his trouser pocket and took out a white paper bag. “Oh don’t look so worried,” George said and handed the paper bag to the Prime Minister. He opened it and peered inside. It was a children’s sweet that had two fizzy powders and a lollypop to stick into the powder. “Double Dip sweets?” David asked angrily. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Joke? Joke?” George raised his voice. The word cut into him like a scythe at harvest time. “You know I don’t do jokes.” George spat out the last word in fury. “But what I do know is that this meeting needed lightening up before we got down to business, but, oh no, that just is not good enough for Mr Prime Minister over there.”

“I’m sorry,” said David but it was to no avail. George was now on a roll of righteous anger and there was no stopping him.

“Do you know how many hours I work as YOUR Chancellor?” George placed emphasis on the word ‘your’. “Of course you don’t. I know you don’t. You don’t care about how many hours I work anymore that you care about those ridiculous partners of ours in Government.”

“You mean the Lib Dems?”

“Who gives a monkey’s what they are called. We both know they are only there to shield us from attacks from the media.” George started to undo his tie and unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt.

“Wha-what are you doing?” David asked staring at the newly loosened tie.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Well,” David answered nervously. All those dreams were flashing around in his head. All those nights waking up in fevered sweats. David swallowed. “It looks like you’re about to t-”

“Hello chaps.”

David and George looked to the door. In had walked the Deputy Prime Minister and leader of the Liberal Democrats, Nick Clegg. “Sorry for barging in but I had to come over straight away after I found out the news of the economy.”

George Osborne looked contemptuously at the Deputy Prime Minister and sniffed twice. “Smoking again?”

“Er, well I had one or two on the way over,” Nick Clegg replied, “it’s this recession thingy. It always sets me back a notch or two. I’m sorry.”

“Oh don’t be” smiled George, “the more people smoke the more money goes into the nation’s coffers from the tax on cigarettes and now the NHS is practically private we don’t need to worry about you becoming a drain on our finances later on in life when the poison from those things take hold of you.”

“Now you look here, “shouted Nick back although his nerves betrayed in.

“What Clegg?” George said his name with such dismissiveness that those two words alone stopped the Deputy Prime Minister in his tracks.

“Gentlemen,” the Prime Minister finally cut in, “we need to discuss the economy.” he beckoned the two men to sit down on side of the desk while sat at the opposite side facing them. “Look, we are in a bit of a pickle here. We said to the nation that there was to be no Plan B but Plan A appears to be making things worse. Is it possible that we have made cuts to the budget too deeply and too quickly?”

“No.” George replied. “We need to keep reminding people, as you have said all along that we are all in this together.”

David looked at his Chancellor. He knew that he had not uttered those words himself, they had come from his Chancellor, but the two men were so entwined with the strategy of the Government that he knew the electorate did not really care who had said it.

“Listen we do not need a Plan B,” said George, “but what we do need is a diversionary plan.”

“Like what?” Nick Clegg asked.

“You still here?” George replied before continuing. “What is still going on at the moment?”

“Oh I know,” shouted Clegg, “the race for the Premiership.”

“You really are a dimwit aren’t you?” George replied. “No, the Leveson inquiry is still plodding on relentlessly and this week Rupert Murdoch himself is taking the stand.”

“Oh God.” David put his head in his hands.

“Oh don’t worry about Mr Murdoch, he will be fine and therefore so will we, but what if we allow some news to leak this week about the News Corp takeover of BSkyB?”

“But won’t there be a possibility that we could get dragged into this?” David asked.

“Not if we play our cards right. There will have to be a fall guy, of course, but we need to pick the right one.”

The Prime Minister smiled. He knew this was a brilliant idea. News breaking of the economy slipping once again into recession could prove disastrous for his Government. People would be able to accuse him of getting the economic policy all wrong and of making matters worse. If they could distract the nation from the economy and get them focussing on something else then they may be able to ride the storm.

“Who shall it be?” Nick asked.

“We need someone whom the public pretty much do not know but whom the media is well aware of,” replied George,

“Someone who will be determined to tough it out but because the general public have not got the foggiest idea who is it will not do us much long-term harm.”

The computer on David’s desk made a pinging sound. “It’s an e-mail.” David said.

“Who is it from?” Nick asked.

“The Culture secretary.” David replied. David Cameron and George Osborne smiled at each other. “Perfect.” They both said.

His wife, Samantha, peered through the oak door and walked in. She was wearing a purple floral print dress with a bronze coloured belt just below the bust, a fascinator was attached to the left hand side of her head and platform shoes added three inches to her height. She looked ridiculous but David had grown tired of trying to correct her fashion faux pas. Almost every engagement they had to attend as a couple had been preceded by an argument about clothes. “Look,” Samantha would say, “I don’t write your speeches for you so you do not tell me what I can and cannot wear.”

Samantha walked towards David. “Another difficult phone call?” she asked.

“You could say that.”

“Oh, who was it this time?”

“George, again,” answered David referring to his creepy Chancellor of the Exchequer, “you know sometimes I could swear he knows precisely what I’m thinking.”

Samantha walked behind David and started to massage her husband’s shoulders. “Can’t you just sack him?” She asked. It was a silly question but David wasn’t in the mood for fighting.

“No,” he replied, “I can’t sack him.”

“Why not? You don’t think he knows. About the dreams?”

David shuddered. Ever since he had risen to become Prime Minister he had been plagued by dreams of George Osborne standing naked before him. “No,” replied David, “besides I haven’t had one of those dreams for quite some time.” He was lying. In fact he had suffered one of those dreams just the night before. George Osborne was naked in front of him dancing the Haka with a wooden duck atop his head. David was not sure of the significance of that dream but it troubled him all the same.

“You know sometimes I wonder why I got into politics.”

“You know why,” replied Samantha, “To prove Mummy and Daddy wrong. They said you’d never amount to anything.”

Samantha was right. David’s in-laws always had a thing against people with swept back hair. “Fop haired buffoons never amount to anything.” His in-laws would always say within his ear shot. David was determined to prove them wrong. However being in politics had stirred something in him. He actually wanted to be good at his job and not just use it as a weapon to prove people wrong.

“It’s not just that. It’s this whole fuel lorry driver strike thingy that has got the country into such a tizz.”

“Why is that?” Samantha asked. “I thought Nick Clegg had that all sorted when he said cars could now run on rubbish from bins.”

“Oh no, no, no,” replied David, “Nick got that idea when he watched Back To The Future Two and thought it was a documentary on time travel.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

David puffed his cheeks out and rubbed his eyes. He recalled the greatest piece of advice he had ever received when he first started out on his political career. He turned his head so he was looking into his wife’s eyes. “I’m going to do the same as I always do. Sit back, do nothing and pray that Argentina do a bit more sabre rattling about the Falklands. That always distracts the tabloids from the real stuff that is going on.”

Samantha smiled at her husband. She admired his grit and refusal to give in, no matter how hopeless the situation, however he was not a great Prime Minister, not yet, not while those dreams were not under control. David could try to be re-assuring but Samantha, like the rest of the country is not fooled easily. She knew that for David to have full control of the country he needs to have full control of his dreams and for that to happen he needs to have full control of the Chancellor and that is the challenge, no the only challenge, that awaits David.

What makes a man?

Calling someone ‘Son’ – This works especially well if it’s a policeman but even saying it to kids makes you the man.

Sharpening a pencil with a Stanley knife  – Who needs a pencil sharpener when you can channel your inner caveman and ‘whittle’.

Having a thin bit of wood in the shed - This is essential, what else would you stir your paint with?

Giving a policeman a nod - There is no need to speak, a bit of eye contact and a knowledgeable nod says it all. “We may not have seen eye to eye in the past, but thanks for keeping the scrotes in check”

Using power tools – Instruction booklets are just the woman’s way of suppressing us. ‘Must be used by trained professionals’? Peh! You’re a man, what training do you need?

Carving the roast – Get the biggest, sharpest, most shiny knife you can find and hack the daylights out of that meat. You get added man-points if you say “are you a leg or breast man?” to the blokes and “do you want stuffing?” to the women.

Having something properly wrong with you - This works better if you didn’t make a fuss. “Why was I off, nothing much, just a brain haemorrhage”.

Opening  jars – If your partner is struggling, take the jar from her and open it effortlessly. “You must have loosened it love”. She didn’t, jars are mens work.

Eating meat with your fingers – Using cutlery is for girls, and you’re not a girl are you?

Doing a proper sliding tackle - Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, Wayne Rooney. There is nothing that screams ‘Girl’ than a silky 40 yard run followed by a top corner placed, curling shot. Now doing a two-footed, 3 ft off the ground, knee-high tackle, makes you not only a man but practically Booby Moore.