Mon | Dec 6, 2021

MP greets the PM

Published:Saturday | February 27, 2016 | 12:00 AM
"'Good morning, Mrs MP.”" “"Good morning, Mr PM."

And as the dawn of the 26th day of the second month in the year of our Lord 2016 rose over the isle of Jamrock, there was a stirring in the House of Holness.

The day before had seen a mighty battle, but though the clan of orange had encampeth round the citadel of Belmont Road, Andrew, the chlorophyll cadre's standard-bearer, laid about him mightily with 10-point manifesto and family hugs, littering the battlefield with his foes.

As the Holness dwelling awoke to a new day, sore and bloodied from the fray but triumphant, A touched J gently upon the shoulder and said "Good morning, Mrs MP." J blushed, reached out to A, clutched him to her bosom and said, "Good morning MP as usual and Mr PM - again." And Andrew glowed, looked his bulwark deep in the eyes and said with feeling and meaning "J, ah feel we mus celebrate wid a likkle drink, jus me an you. Look in de cabinet and pass de special tall green glass dem. Not de buffet, y'know J, but de cabinet, de cabinet."

J giggled and said "Yes, Mr PM, as thou biddest I doest. To the cabinet I go. Shall I fill said glasses with orange juice?" A smiled and replied "No J, though I forgive them for the remarks about our house upon the high hill of Beverly, for all is fair in the war that is politics, I cannot forget. No orange this morning of victory. Pour the aloe vera juice - green, green, green.

"As a matter of fact, let us send an envoy to Peter, he of the house of Phillips, with a case of the big bottles. He is a decent man. He will get the joke and let us desist from this matter of courts as we join in the singing of one National Anthem."

And they drank deeply.

The pundits and predictors, old and new, had all been proven wrong, picking Mama P to deliver the whipping (times many) she promised when the trumpet was blasted and the gate flown.

For none could have known the card Andrew had up his green sleeve, for where his Papa Eddie had once promised the electorate to make money jingle in the pocket and the clan of orange dismissed that as coins, Andrew committed to folding money which rustles like green leaves in the wind - double for they at the minimum, up to three Shearers and a toops more they further up the scale.

It was this pledge which tipped the balance, naught else, reversing poll deficits and bringing the chlorophyll crew hurtling across the line like that Novlene Williams-Mills stretch drive in the 4x400m at World Champs.

So Andrew art the Champion Bway, living My Dream to the dancehall generation, but woe be unto he if the promises are not kept and maintained, or if money given taken away by other means, for it shall be sorry times upon the land of Jamrock. Andrew shall be square peg in a round hole, the biggest con artist in the history of a land known for scammers, hustlings and Ponzi schemes.

To the victor goes the spoils and now many a career spoileth, for when orange is in it is a ripe day for its clan; when green is in it is showers of blessing upon its members. Many a gorgon in ministries and places with initials like UDC, JCDC, JUTC and NWC now goeth to supermarket for cardboard box to encase tomes and family portrait swept from expansive desks. For when the colour of government over the isle of Jamrock changeth naught are permanent - not even the secretary.