Interview With A Tony Blair

(Note:  Apparently Blogger has issues with the UK Labour Party.  This interview was posted a week ago but failed to show.  Oh Blogger, why art thou a Tory?)

As promised a while ago now (look crack cake addiction is a full time job) we promised an exclusive meet and greet with the former UK Prime Minister, and other half to George W’s Bromance, Tony Blair.  Our political correspondent (and said crack cake whore) Minga, visited Mr Blair over two weeks during his whirlwind tour of the Middle East, as…Envoy to the Middle East.   

COFFEE

It’s unreasonably hot when I get into Dubai.  The dry air, the temperature soaring and wearing a full body suit made of llama fur was probably not the best idea.  I am ushered into a shiny black limousine straight from 1985 by a hairy cousin.  We drive fast.  I need to pee.

Arriving at some swank hotel café/bistro, there are patrons spilling out.  I am again ushered to a locked velvet room.  I buy my grade-A pure saffron for my mum.  I am ushered out again to the back.

There's a good looking male sitting in the garden, wrapped in about nine black sweaters and wearing a wool hat, smoking cigarettes, sipping a latte the size of his head, and furiously making notes on a script in the dry heat (I'm channelling/plagerising Details magazine).  My llama and I walk over and sit and smile lovingly.

"You still owe me that sponge bath and pack of fags”

Robert Pattinson looks at me rather disturbed.

Before I have a chance to gain a good grope, an older gentleman, dressed head to toe in Armani and a hairline receding for its life, comes over and shakes my hand.

“Hi, I’m Tony Blair”.  He smiles that infamous Mad Hatter on crack smile and I grudgingly get up and follow him, leaving Cedric Diggery and my fags.  Damn it.  I hate my job.

 

SHISHA

Charismatic; Informal; War-Monger; feral beast; Creepy; That Gimp Who Looks Like Michael Sheen; Those are just some of the adjectives the media has bestowed upon the UK Labour party’s longest serving Prime Minister.  Despite this, Blair’s face is constantly busy, creepy yes, but always thinking.

We sit on the velvet chaise in his Presidential suite as George W Bush sits in the corner playing Wii tennis.  He’s obviously losing as he continually yells obscenities to the TV in broken Spanish. 

Blair pours me some tea (no milk, I’m Persian and that’s how we roll) and lights up the gigantic purple shisha in front of him.  He inhales deeply as his face shows a man full of contradictions.

Still being high from the crack cakes I don’t waste time on chit chat. 

“So Tony, do you find it rather ironic that after bombing the crap outta two Middle Eastern countries, you were made the official Envoy of the Quartet on the Middle East?”

He pauses, his face contorting into that infamous Cheshire (yawn) grin and he blinks furiously.

“Well was it was ironic that after getting the Nobel Peace prize, Obama bombed the Moon?”  He finally exhales.

“Yes.  But at least no one lives there.”

Point: Minga. 

“Well I don’t get paid for being an Envoy”

Point: Blair

“But you ask for a quarter of a million dollars to do one speech.”

Check: Minga

“Yeah only Yanks though innit?”  He smiles.

Game set and match: Blair.  Damn it.

  [With W.  In happier times] 

 

Suddenly ol’ W yells from his corner, “Yo Blair!  Where’s my chai latte?” to which Blair just rolls his brown (or blue or green or whatever) eyes and turns to Bush and yells,

“What did I tell you?  This is Tony’s time!  Tony has to work, so make your own damn chump coffee!”

He sits back around, the anger slowly draining the red from his flushed face.  I look over to poor ol’ W who pouts and sits sullen in his couch.  He puts on Grand Theft Auto.

Could it be?  This is the finale to the world’s most famous Bromance?

Blair thinks so.  He talks about the good times and bad, and being BFF’s with one of the world’s most hated world leaders. 

“Sometimes there comes a point in every friendship when you just have to say, I never liked you, get lost”.  He contemplates, blowing out shisha smoke in the shape of a broken heart.

I look over to W.  He stares at me like one stares at a fish before gutting it.  I’m guessing W didn’t take that too well.

“Maybe I’ll miss him.  Just a little” Blair says as he looks over to W.  He rubs his palm on his heart and points it to W.

I hold back the vomit as I finish off the shisha.

Stay tuned for Part II: Cigarettes and Shisha Overdose, where we talk butch wives, Blair’s faith and Minga’s guilty pleasure – the  Foreign Secretary.