Friends: The One With George, Lynton and tricking the Scots

The Scottish opinion polls were looking bad for the “No” campaign. Their
ratings were sliding downhill faster than a fat man on a skeleton bob. A new
report had claimed that there was £300 billion’s worth of oil waiting to be
fracked off the coast of Scotland. And all they could offer to stem the
Nationalist surge were personal appearances by Ed Miliband, Ed Balls and
John Prescott.

At No 10, Dave was in despair. The Union was falling apart on his watch. He
would be remembered as the man who lost the blue bits in the Union Jack and
changed the country’s name to Not Quite As Great As It Used To Be Britain.
And now he was relying on Ed Miliband, the man Lynton Crosby always said was
about as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike.

Speaking of Lynton, where was he? And where was George? Dave had been trying
to contact them both, but no one had a clue where they were.

The answer was: behind the locked door of the Chancellor’s office at the
Treasury, where George was pouring drinks – Scotch, as it happened – for
himself and Crosby. “A toast,” George said, raising his glass. “To Operation
‘Jocks Away’!”

“Jocks Away!” Crosby repeated, enthusiastically. Then the Aussie strategist
lifted his right arm and added, “And good on you, Georgie, ya little ripper.
I’ll tell ya straight, when you first described your plan to rid the nation
of five million fried Mars Bar munchers with an allergy to voting
Conservative, I thought you’d got a herd of ’roos loose. But you might just
be about to pull it off. If all those Scottish turkeys vote for their own,
independent Christmas, we’ll never worry about a Labour government again.”

“Thanks, Lynton,” said George. “I’m just sorry that Dave can’t see the
benefits of a Yes vote. The problem is, he likes to think of himself as
being a Scotsman, because he’s called Cameron.”

“That’s like me thinking I can sing White Christmas, just because I’m called
Crosby. But anyway, what do you reckon was the turning point?”

“Well, I’m not one to claim credit for myself, even if my personal policies,
devised and executed by me, have given Britain world-beating growth. But the
facts speak for themselves. The tide turned when I gave my speech warning
the Scots they couldn’t keep the pound.”

“You really laid it on thick. Talk about a condescending, toffee-nosed
Sassenach git!”

‘I know!” George beamed delightedly. “And the beauty of it was, my argument
was both insulting and absolutely true: they can’t have our quids.”

“Yer not worried by Olli Rehn saying that Scotland can’t possibly join the EU
without its own central bank?”

“No one cares what some German ex-commissioner thinks. Right now the Scots
hate us so much they’d use Irn Bru bottle tops as coins if it meant being
free of the English.”

“So there won’t be Scottish MPs at Westminster…”

“And I’ll be the next Conservative Prime Minister,” George cried, “for ever!”