A Rees-Moggmas Carol

A Rees-Moggmas Carol

by Sam Redlark

Jacob Rees-Mogg, MP for North East Somerset, emerged from his chambers dressed in his powder-blue, Conservative Party-issue pyjamas, to the disquieting spectacle of his household staff idly milling about in the hallway, evidently in a state of considerable distress.

“I say, what's going on?” he enquired brusquely. “Why aren't you all busy with your respective duties?”

“Oh, it is a terrible thing, Sir,” said Miss Billingsthwaite, the head housekeeper, lowering her head and pulling deferentially on the lace hem of her maid's cap.

Her sentiment was echoed, with slight variations, along the disorderly parade of servants.

“Well spit it out then, woman, before the estate falls to ruin!” exclaimed Rees-Mogg.

“Oh Sir, it's Tiny Tim, who is the youngest boy of your deputy washerwoman, Mrs Collybird. He clambered into the funnel of one of your stovepipe hats, so he did, to clean it, Sir, as per your instructions. An'way now he is stuck firm and no 'mount of butter will free him. Mrs Collybird fears that he will be fated to spend the rest of his life wedged up inside that hat, like a frightened snail, Sir.

She simpered under the blank, judgemental stare of her employer, in the hope of stirring in him some vestige of his better self.

“Where is Mrs Collybird?” demanded Rees-Mogg. “I do not see her among you.”

“Retired to her cupboard, Sir. To sob away her grief at the loss of her youngest child, Sir.”

Rees-Mogg's expression remained frozen, but a small change behind his eyes suggested that he had reached a decision on the matter.

“Clearly this issue needs to be addressed pragmatically, by a person who greatly exceeds your respective social stations,” he observed.

The servants stared back at him dumbly.

He clapped his hands together several times, while bringing his arms forward, as if he was shooing away a gaggle of inquisitive geese.

“Back to work all of you,” he said, raising his voice authoritatively. “I shall resolve this matter within the hour.”

~

The MP's study had recently been re-panelled, using wood from ancient groves that had been felled to accommodate the High-Speed London to Birmingham Rail Network. The varnish coating on the wainscotting had yet to darken, and exuded the mellow Autumnal glow of a dying sun.

Pondering the wisdom of shortening the travel-time between the city of London and the north of England, Rees-Mogg rang a small handbell on his desk. A few minutes later he was greeted by the odious, yet familiar, sound of his manservant, Gove, dragging his gout-swollen penis along the threadbare carpet of one the corridors that was reserved for the domestic staff. Shortly after, the steward emerged from behind a secret door that had been disguised to resemble a bookcase, his lips puckered like a badly-knotted balloon that refused to deflate.

“Gove, it would appear that a child has taken up residence inside one of my hats,” said Rees-Mogg. “Ensure that he is charged an appropriate rent for the duration of his stay, back-dated to November.”

“Very good, Sir,” replied Gove, tugging on a greying forelock.

He made to leave, but was halted mid-turn by a sharp rebuke from his master.

“That is not everything, Gove. A quantity of butter has been expended in a futile attempt to extricate the boy. Be sure that the full cost is deducted from Mrs Billingsthwaite's pay. Furthermore, I understand that the boy's mother spontaneously relieved herself from her duties without first seeking the 30 days notice required in order to desert one's post. Ensure that her wages are docked and that she is formally reprimanded for her insubordination.”

“Very good, Sir,” wheezed Gove.

Shifting his inflamed trouser ballast, he hobbled across the room, where his trembling hands fumbled with the bookcase, in search of the volume that would induce the secret door to open.

~

It had become customary for Rees-Mogg to enjoy a small glass of ruby port, around the hour of 11pm. He served the beverage himself, as he did not believe that a person educated in one of the state schools would be capable of competently performing such a task; a suspicion that he felt was confirmed by the writings of Pliny, the Elder.

As he brought the decanter down from its shelf, he became cognisant of a muffled commotion occurring within the pantry. Upon opening the door, he was confronted by the baffled visage of the Prime Minister, Boris Johnson.

“I think that I, um, sat on your Stilton,” said the dishevelled figure as he lumbered into the kitchen, dragging behind him a long chain of children of various ages, who were holding hands with each other.

“Is this your brood?” enquired Rees-Mogg.

“So I'm told,” bumbled the Prime Minister. “I don't recall giving birth to any of them.”

“Mister, can I pull one of your Christmas crackers,” said a presumptuous, wide-eyed girl.

Rees-Mogg regarded the child sternly over the rims of his spectacles.

“Well that depends. Do you have £50?”

“No Sir, I don't have anything like that,” said the child.

“Then you must sell some stocks and shares, until your have earned the required sum,” lectured the MP. “After that there will be the small matter of references, one from the provost of your school and another from Lloyds of London.”

“I don't have any of that,” mumbled the child.

“Well then, you have learned a very valuable lesson concerning the dangers of dreaming above your station.”

“If I, um, may interject,” blathered the Prime Minister. “I've been asked to, um, warn you that, um, you'll be visited by three Christmas ghosts. It's an EU directive. They might be, um, some forms that they want you to sign. Just tear them up and ignore them. Anyway, um, I must be off.”

Johnson opened a random wood-panelled door and was immediately bathed in a soft, yellow glow.

“That's the fridge, Prime Minister,” said Rees-Mogg.

“No matter,” replied Johnson, waving away the MP's concern, as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Rees-Mogg eyed the line of expectant children before him.

Pondering on the best way to remove them from his sight without causing a scandal, he racked his brains for an appropriate quote from Titus Andronicus, that might suggest a prudent course of action. Finally his rictus mouth shifted a few degrees, changing his expression to one of conniving amiability.

“How would you children like to work eighteen-hour days in a Dickensian blacking factory?” he enquired.

~

Rees-Mogg was dozing peacefully in his tasselled night-cap, when a green-tinged phantasm began to manifest beneath the brocaded canopy of his four-poster bed.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” announced the spectre in a well-elocuted tone that implied good schooling.

“Let me just put on my spectacles,” said the MP.

He squinted at the apparition.

“I say, is that you, Stinker?”

The ghost looked surprised.

“Why, yes it is... hold on is it?... Moggy, is that you?”

“My god, Stinker. I haven't seen you since the post-graduation buttock-caning ceremony at Eton,” exclaimed Rees-Mogg. “How the devil did you swing this gig?”

“Daddy pulled some strings after that unsavoury business in the city,” said the ghost, ruefully. “Anyway, it's a busy night for me. I get to visit the usual mob. Reminiscence about old times.”

“So what's the state of play here?” enquired the MP.

“I take you back to a moment in your past. It's a formality, really. The only time I send the police around afterwards is when the client is poor or, you know, not originally from these fair isles.”

“It must be a terrible cross to bear, not being able to trace one's lineage back to the Battle of Hastings,” sighed Rees-Mogg.

Around him the room began to dissolve. He felt himself being pulled backwards through a maelstrom of rotating newspaper headlines, while a montage of popular hits from bygone decades, introduced by the radio DJ, Dave Lee Travis, played obnoxiously in the background.

As reality settled around him, he became aware that he was standing in a bedroom, decorated with heavy oak furnishings and antique silver objects. A small boy was hunched over a desk, writing by candlelight.

“It looks strangely familiar, but I can't place it,” he said.

“The year is 1981,” said the ghost. “There you are at your desk, at the tender age of twelve years old, penning a letter to the BBC, demanding that they pay the £18 you requested in exchange for an interview, and threatening them with legal action if they do not cough up. You were so happy then.”

Rees-Mogg gazed fondly upon the recovered image of his lost childhood.

“Yes, yes I was,” he replied, stoically.

“Anyway, we'd better be off,” said the ghost.

If anything the music that sound-tracked their return journey was even more objectionable than before.

Back in his own time, Rees-Mogg climbed into bed. He was just beginning to doze off, when the air around him seemed to tauten. There was a crackle of electricity that was accompanied by the strong smell of ozone. A shimmering oval-shaped window opened in front of him, framing the image of a middle-aged man in a suit.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Future,” he declared.

Rees-Mogg checked the pocket watch in his pyjama top.

“I was expecting the Ghost of Christmas Present to arrive next,” he said.

“He must be late,” said the man in the mirror. “This a brief courtesy call, so I won't keep you long. In the future I am your accountant. I wanted to let you know that all of your investments are doing well. It was a very good idea to move your money outside of the UK.”

Rees-Mogg squinted at the oval window, in an attempt to discern something of the room his accountant occupied.

“I say, is that chair behind you made from human bones?” he enquired.

“It is,” replied the man. “You have a keen eye Mr Rees-Mogg, or should I say Emperor Rees-Mogg. In the future, all items of furniture manufactured in the UK are made from children's bones. The skeletons of the under-tens represent one of our nation's biggest and most successful industries.”

“The legs on the chair seem a little bowed,” observed the MP.

“That will be the rickets,” said the accountant. “Most children in the UK have the disease, along with scurvy. Oh, and I hear that measles is making a strong comeback in the slums.”

A haggard look took hold of Rees-Mogg.

“My god... that is simply appalling...,” he said. “And nothing is being done about this?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“We must import the bones of stronger children from elsewhere in the world. Meanwhile those soft-boned children in the UK should be made to undergo a punitive regime of cross-country runs to toughen them up.”

“I will pass your recommendations on to his, I mean your Royal Highness, when we next meet,” said the accountant obsequiously. He reached forward and appeared to press a button. Immediately the shimmering window collapsed in on itself and vanished.

Rees-Mogg was about to settle down again, when he heard a heavy stumble outside his room, followed by an uncultured knock.

“Enter,” he called.

The large, burly man, who ambled into the bed chamber was the living embodiment of Karl Marx's lumpenproletariat.

“Good morning to you, Sir,” said the brawny figure in an offhand manner that raised the hackles of the recumbent MP. “The Ghost of Christmas Present at your service. This will just take a moment of your time.”

“You're late,” said Rees-Mogg, regarding the man with displeasure.

“Yes, I am. My apologies for that, Sir.”

“And if I am not mistaken you are also the CEO of Serco, and therefore not technically a ghost.”

“Why, it's astute of you to recognise that, Sir,” beamed the man. “The contract for Ghost of Christmas Present was up for renewal last year. They didn't put it out to tender. It was decided instead to award it to Serco.”

“If I may ask, how did you gain access to my home at this late hour?” enquired Rees-Mogg.

“Well, there again, Sir, it was Serco who was contracted to provide home security to all properties owned by of members of parliament,” said the man. “Flimsy devils those locks are. Fall apart in your hands, they will.”

The MP's embedded expression of disgust suddenly lit up with a spark of inspiration.

“Look, I'm in a bit of quandary,” he said. “There's a charity called Unicef who are claiming they will be sending out food parcels to children in the UK for the first time in their 70 year history. It's a terrible look in the press. Makes the government seem callous. What would you say if I tossed a few million your way? In return you would give the impression that you were feeding the hungry children of Great Britain. You wouldn't actually do it. Heaven forbid, no. Just make it look like you are.”

Again, the big man smiled broadly.

“Why sir, I would be delighted to. In fact it may interest you to learn that the Serco company motto is “The appearance of activity”, in Latin of course. I like to think that our company is the exception to the rule that you get what you pay for.”

“Very well, I'll see to it that my valet, Gove, draws up a contract in the morning,” said the MP. “Help yourself to a candied partridge on the way out.”

After the man was gone, Rees-Mogg sank down into his duvet, luxuriating into the warmth of the Kakapo-feather stuffing. It had been a profitable and memorable evening, he reflected. Now with the last of the ghosts gone, only sleep remained to haunt his future.

~

He awoke late the following day feeling refreshed, and filled with vim and vigour. Springing from his bed he performed 20 star jumps than dashed to the window, flinging it wide open, and extending his upper body into the cold bracing air, as if he was the carved figurehead of a 17^th century merchantman.

Below, in the street, an unkempt urchin dragged a small toboggan over the snow-covered body of a little girl, who had frozen to death while selling matches the previous evening.

“You boy down there,” cried Rees-Mogg. “What day is it?”

“Why Sir,” it's Christmas Day,” replied the youth. “Also the Prime Minister has decreed that the calendar be dialled back a full 17 decades to the year of our Lord, 1850.”

The MP's face broke out into a broad smile.

“Then why aren't you at work boy?” he cried. “Get along now before I notify the authorities.”

He retreated back into his room, vigorously rubbing his hands together, ignoring the stifled cries that were emanating from the stovepipe hat in the corner.