It was in the late spring of 2008 when Field Marshal Bullit summoned me to Buckingham Palace and informed me personally of the revolution's latest barmy project. He wanted to solicit my advice on its merits.

Bullit's over active imagination had been fired by two ambitious scientists out to make a name for themselves and take human fertilisation and embryology programmes to their next logical step. They wrote to Bullit, and asked to meet him to discuss their ambitious plan, and as Bullit often studied Nazi history, he liked the idea. Bullit, saw it as a natural extension of the Nazi's evil work that never quite managed to be brought to its natural conclusion in the mid-forties.

At Downing Street the previous year, Bullit, not only held an in-depth meeting on the subject, he accelerated it. Bullit, particularly liked the fact he could replicate himself. Bullit, wanted legions of Bullit babies to continue his work once he was dead and buried, and little did I know just how enthusiastic he would become about the concept, as my limo' slowed, passed through the security checks, and then continued into the opulant Palace grounds. The explosions of yellow and mauve sping crocus ornately decorating the manicured lawns looked magnificent. Even the daffs were out. I left my car and travelled to his personal State rooms beyond.

I arrived on the second floor, and was greeted by his butler, Menson, who showed me through to Bullit's opulent rooms and palatial suite. And If I thought us minions had plundered national treasures, we took nothing in comparison to Bullit's exceptional greed. His quarters were adorned with the most expensive antiques, artwork and embroidered silk furniture imaginable.

I found him lying accumbent on a sofa. He lay there, and picked at a plate of food as though bored by the whole prospect of revolution, and its day-to-day running.

"Michael!" He yelled as I entered, as though my visit alleviated the monotony of high office. "Well come in, don't just stand there," he added, and raised to his feet, walked across the room and captured me by the arms with his powerful, hairy hands. "Let me look at you," he continued, and pushed me to arms length, and scrutinised my black uniform. "It suits you," he complemented.

"Thank you, Sir," I replied, politely.

"Had a fantastic idea," he revealed, and I assumed that's what boredom did to powerful men like Bullit. The whole silly plan was a pipe-dream of one person's deranged mind.

"And your fantastic idea is, Sir?" I inquired.

"In a word, Michael: Eugenics. What d'you think?"

I wanted desperately to ask him what I should think, but like so many 'fantastic ideas' Bullit had, we were normally expected to work the content out for ourselves. It was always a puzzle, and like so many other members of the revolutionary council, I needed to proceed carefully with my evaluation.

"What kind of eugenics programme does the Field Marshal have in mind?" I asked tentatively. The last thing I wanted was a scene, which I would have more than likely got if I overstepped the mark.

"My children!" Exclaimed Bullit, as he paced the room: "thousands of them! I want them to lead the world through the calamity it faces?" He silenced, looked penetratingly through me, with wild, distant eyes as though I wasn't there and beseeched a contribution. "Well, Michael?"

"You plan to clone babies in your own image, Sir?" I responded, and tried to comprehend the repugnance of such an idea. The mere thought of such a grandiose scheme was enough to make a sane man, mad. But Bullit himself wasn't sane, he was as mad as a march hare at intermittent times during the period I knew him: usually when they either changed his medication, or he simply refused to take it and we had to resort to slipping it in his tea.

When called to the Palace, I assumed it another one of those occasions, and if I played along, weathered the initial gestation period, the idea might simply go away, as so many of his grand projects did.

"I've decided," declared Bullit, as he continued to pace the room, his head down as if deep in thought. "That I shall personally donate my semen to the cause, and impregnate a hundred women at a time." He elaborated, and ceased pacing. "Then, when the babies are born, they shall be removed from their mothers and placed in special institutions. Only fit, health mothers, mind you, at the peak of their physical perfection. Blonde, blue eyed offspring to initially continue the line, and then, when our scientists are fully prepared to clone, we'll use that genetic line to produce the perfect specimen."

"Sounds wonderful, Sir." I recall saying.

"If we perfect the science and technology, Michael, there's no good reason why one day, every baby born in Britain shouldn't carry at least part on my generic make-up: or at least no reason why they shouldn't all be Aryan in appearance. We'll create the finest minds the world's ever seen, the most brilliant academics, the greatest athletes. Think of it, Michael, a race of super- beings capable of running, moulding and shaping humanity's destiny."

Even Max the dog, who slept beneath Bullit's desk looked troubled by the idea, as he rose, twisted, repositioned himself and slumped back down with a heavy sigh. And I knew exactly how he felt.

"You know how ungrateful the world is, Sir, they might reject your plan." I said, hoping to dissuade him. The minute anyone put a difficult obstacle in Bullit's way, it could trip him up, and I believed that might have done the trick as I stood there, and watched him frown.

"By that time, Michael, we'll control most of the world," he stated. "I've got that idiot Jenkins (Ministry of Defence) arriving shortly, and I'll show you then how we plan to move forwards with our plans. Once our armed forces are up to scratch, we'll move quickly and establish the UK as a new world power."

It was all true, Field Marshal Bullit, hero of the revolution had already scoured the atlas with big envious, mad eyes, and in his haste, he'd already started colouring a big wall chart red, like an excited school child colouring a picture to please his parents. Bullit's wall chart of the world was felt tipped with red ink, all across Africa, most of the Middle East and certain parts closer to home. It was his dream, another one he quickly got bored with, but would come back to when he encountered another manic high. And those nations, oblivious to his expansionist desire would eventually find themselves the recipients of the most vicious conquering the planet has ever witnessed. When Bullit finally decided to move his military might eight years later, the world would watch astounded be the sheer brutality of it.

"So, what about it?" Asked Bullit.

"What about what, Sir?" I replied, momentarily lost.

"Cloning, Michael, for godsakes pay attention. Do you think it's a good idea or a bad idea?"

How I longed to tell him just how bad it was, how stupid the whole empty dream actually was, but with our situation opinions never worked like that. As I mentioned previously, in revolutionary circles, you weren't supposed to burst the bubble, or destroy those type of plans: you were expected to help push them forwards to fruition, help make them grow and expand their content, so like all those around me, I kept my mouth shut as to their folly.

"It's brilliant, Sir, absolutely brilliant. I only wish I had thought of it."

"You'll not be excluded, Michael, I promise," pledged Bullit, and seriously believed I wanted to associate myself to his futile project. "If you want to donate your semen, Michael, it'll be more than welcome."

"I planned to marry one day, Sir," I interrupted, and distanced myself from his lunacy, and his interfering ways. I knew what Bullit was upto. He wanted to push his way into my life and organise it for me.

"So you don't want me to add your name to the list of sponsors then, Michael. George, has already offered to contribute, to set my project in motion, and I had hoped you might want to do the same. You're a fine example of a man, Michael. Any woman would feel damned proud to have you sire her children. What are you, six-one, six-two?"

"Nearly six-two, Sir..."

"Nearly six-two, blond hair, sapphire blue eyes, big broad shoulders, fit and healthy, with a lightning mind on you as sharp as a rapier: and a soldier of the revolution to boot. We need people like you, Michael, in their thousands if possible," encouraged Bullit. And it was a shame I didn't want to help, because he seemed so genuinely passionate about the whole idea.

"To reiterate, Sir, I hoped to marry one day, and have a family of my own, the old fashioned way..."

"Got your eye on someone special, Michael?" He asked, his voice naughty.

In fact, I hadn't 'got my eye on someone special', although that might not be exactly true. At Oxford, six years earlier I meet the most perfect creature a man could ever wish to meet, and totally screwed it up. I was twenty three, she was eighteen, and came from Canada. Her name was, is, Jackie, a five foot eight, brown hair, brown eyed beauty any man would die for. Jackie, was/is slender, shapely, sophisticated and loaded. Her father, Jenson T. Spooner is the world's second biggest media baron and has more money than he knows what to do with, and I, in them student years was on the cusp of marrying the lot, until a small indiscretion put paid to all that. I had everything, and threw it all away on a stupid, misguided whim. But still, bachelorhood had its advantages. As head of media and propaganda I could have had practically any woman I wanted; I had a beautiful home, and didn't have to worry about re-elections, as the party was dictatorial. And so, marriage at that time could wait, a lifetime if I had had my way. But I kept in touch with Jackie, just in case things changed, although our relationship was secret, between ourselves while she pursued her career, and I pursued mine. (We were occasional lovers.)

"So when do I meet her?" Inquired Bullit.

"Meet her, Sir?"

"Yes, Michael, you got soap in your ears, meet her!"

As usual, Bullit heard someone shout two plus two and made five. I mentioned the fact I admired a woman from afar, and he wanted to book the church. Well it wasn't going to happen. That time, I put my foot down; and lived my own life.

"I thought I'd bide my time, Sir, take it slowly. Jackie, lives overseas and it isn't always easy for her to get away, Sir. Her father's Jenson T. Spooner the media baron and good friend of the revolution, Sir. I don't wish to upset him."

"Why would you marrying his daughter upset him, Michael?"

Why couldn't Bullit have just left it alone, left me alone, and stuck his nose into someone else's business and let me sort out my own private life. Why did it bother him so much? God! it was annoying.

I was saved from further embarrassment by a discrete, but gentle rap of knuckles on the large entrance doors; Max pricked his ears, stood and growled and readied himself to defend his master, about the only one of us that would, and then trotted towards the door as Bullit screamed:

"Enter!"

Another rap of knuckles gently reverberated around the room and Bullit, frustrated, marched determined to the doors, ripped them open and shouted:

"It's you, Jenkins, get in here..."

I never really liked Colin Jenkins, not because he was nasty or did me any harm, but more because he was feeble, a wimp, that type of cretinous office wimp no one ever invites to parties. He was a little man who spent his life on his own, and so dedicated it to his chosen profession: re-militrifying our armed forces. He looked like Himmler, as he stood there in his black uniform, his tiny round spectacles, his hair shaved up the back of his neck and his pointed features. He stood with a briefcase in hand, as Max the dog circled him, and became more, and more excited.

"Colonel!" said Jenkins politely, as he entered deeper. I nodded.

"They the plans?" Asked Bullit, cryptic.

"The first Surface Raider, Sir," responded Jenkins, as he grovelled to the point of obscenity. (No wonder I didn't like him.)

"Spread them on the floor," ordered Bullit as he fell to his knees. Jenkins followed, and I was expected to do the same. And Max, thought it some hilarious game, as he stole Jenkins' cap and began tossing it about in his mouth, and growled and barked with excitement.

"My hat, Sir..." Said Jenkins, disturbing the Field Marshal.

"Never mind your hat, man, get the plans out."

"Yes, Sir," replied Jenkins, and fumbled at the catches of his briefcase, as I positioned myself on the floor with them, and together we sat there like three juvenile schoolboys with ideas far bigger than our expectations deserved.

Jenkins unrolled a huge blueprint of a warship, that seemed to me, no more than a mess of lines and squiggles. But the accompanying photographs proved more extensive in their construction. What I quickly witnessed was a formidable, huge, gun-grey battleship of the most enormous proportions, and as I turned the picture this way then that, Bullit invited my comment.

"Isn't she a beauty, Michael?" He said, proudly.

"It's very impressive, Sir..." I congratulated, not that I really knew that much about warships or their construction. They all appear pretty similar to me.

"Absolutely magnificent," mumbled Bullit, and I watched, as Colin Jenkins' lips fractured the slightest of smiles, pleased his master offered praise. And even though the praise wasn't aimed directly at Jenkins, he still managed to feed off it in a surrogate way. Bullit, made his day.

"You see, Michael," said Bullit, educational: "16in forward guns, 14in secondary guns, and a whole array of tertiary guns. Gatling guns, cruise missiles, atomic-depth-chargers and double plate hull. You'll need big balls to mess with these, Michael."

I didn't doubt it, as I scrutinised the Surface Raider some more. They were all part of Bullit's comprehensive sea power, his very own kriegsmarine, designed exclusively on the same principle as the Germans used during the second world war, and the same principle any bully uses to throw his weight around. They were bigger, and faster than most ships afloat, they could out gun others and engage smaller ships with surface-to-surface missiles if needed. However, Bullit's plans for his new armada out surpassed even my thinking. Those huge monsters were to be allowed to prowl the open seas, and strike terror and fear into men's hearts as they menaced costal towns, shadowed merchant shipping and stayed clear of encountering other warships. They had one distinctive purpose, intimidation.

"How many are we building, Sir?" I asked, as though interested.

"Twelve," responded Bullit.

"Fourteen, Sir..." Interrupted Jenkins. But with good news.

"Why fourteen?" Demanded Bullit, and sought elaboration.

"I checked the shipyard books, Sir. Apparently, from my evaluation of the finances involved, certain contractors have over estimated the construction cost, and therefore, with some reappraisal we can squeeze a further two ships if the costing is accounted more accurately."

"Deliberate or mistaken inaccuracy?" Questioned Bullit, concerned.

Depending on how Jenkins answered the next question, would determine the outcome of several men's lives. All Jenkins needed to do was declare an inaccuracy in the figures, and then go and have a quiet word with those involved. In fact, if he played his cards right, he might have earned a nice back-hander for himself; something he could have tucked away in a private, offshore back account for his retirement.

"I'd say a deliberate deception, Sir," said Jenkins, and nearly resigned several individuals to a messy death, if the revolutionary council had had its way. "I can't see any other other reason, Sir!" he continued, administering the poison.

No, to say Jenkins administered poison is probably wrong, he was too naive to do that. Jenkins, never understood how individuals could drop other people in the shit, that's all. He was a party man, through and through and any deviation from that course wasn't even considered. To Jenkins, rules were rules and their rigidity needed to be upheld.

"George Shaw been informed?" Asked Bullit.

"The Home Secretary's in Jersey at the moment, Sir."

"What's he doing there?" Barked Bullit.

"Sorting out financial matters," I interjected. Jenkins, might have been to green to administer the poison, but I wasn't. I still harboured a grudge from the way George Shaw set me up with Camp 51, and Jenkins admission of financial impropriety was just the type of excuse I needed to send Bullit's over active imagination into overdrive.

"What's that you say, Michael?, George has financial business in Jersey; what sort of financial business?" He wanted me to draw him a picture.

"I believe it has something to do with the lottery, Sir..."

"That's ok then." said Bullit. "George, mentioned something about the lottery. Now, Jenkins, aircraft carriers, how you proceeding with our new flat tops? Can I count on you?" Asked Bullit. And I could only assume that devious old bastard George Shaw covered his tracks well: that time.

"The Americans have already commissioned the project, Sir, the first arrived at our shipyards a month ago, the second will be here in another year and the third, in about three years time. I took the liberty of placing an order for the aircraft to man them and the final order awaits your signature, Sir."

It's funny how money has a habit of blinding people, governments, and world powers to the reality that surrounds them. The Americans, must have been aware of our human rights abuses, but in their desperation to secure, what was estimated to be a 30billion pound deal, they turned the proverbial blind eye. Field Marshal Bullit was right when he proposed the idea at a former meeting. Bullit, backed by the revolutionary council, advanced a huge arms deal with the Americans, just to keep America from prying into our business.

"What exactly have you ordered?" Demanded Bullit, of Jenkins.

"All the paraphernalia needed, Sir. I expressed our wish to stack all three carriers with the natural accessories desired for standard operations."

"Which is?" Barked Bullit, with a big bear like voice. Jenkins began to shake. "F16s F15s F18s, Intruders, AWAX, all of which will be complemented by our own Merlin helicopters, Sir."

"What about munitions?" Growled Bullit, as he inquired further, and Max the dog continued to shake Jenkins' hat, or what was left of it.

"The munitions factories on the Isle of White, Sir are nearly complete. Once we move the labour force from the mainland to there, we can begin munitions production in earnest. Might I ask for increased food supplies to be sent across, Sir, otherwise we'll have problems with malnutrition," advised Jenkins.

Colonel Jenkins' reference to 'a labour force', meant a forced labour force of Jews and non-black ethnic's, ethnic's Bullit ordered to our production yards to increase productivity and reduce employment costs. They were slave labour, and organised on the most massive scale. The final tally for workers shipped out to the Isle of White would be estimated at over 700,000 people, and when their services were no longer required, and they could no longer work, they were sent to the Isle of Man - and gased.

"Are the other Surface Raiders being completed as we speak?" Asked Bullit, and turned his attention back to his big menacing heavy cruisers, as pictures could often provoke his imagination more than any conversation. To Bullit, people were an irrelevance, an inconvenience he could live without. And just like all the monsters throughout history who went before him; the beloved Fuhrer, who Bullit idolised, whom he kept a picture of on his desk. And dear uncle Joe Starling who massacred millions in the name of communism, Bullit showed or held little compassion for those expendable masses, as our country expanded, and national pride was re-established.

To Bullit, slave labour was idealistic fodder, designed to advance his ambition, just as it was used in Russia and Germany. And just like them, ours to, would end in tears.

"We expect the second ship to roll off the production line within four months, Sir, and then one every six months after that. Sea trials of the first ship begin when you say so, Sir!' Promised Jenkins, as his piggy eyes pointed hypnotically toward the photograph Bullit held admiringly between his fingers.

"Name her, Kline, after Michael," ordered Bullit, in what he saw as a gift to me. And I wanted to die, be swallowed whole by the floor. But as with everything the revolution did, with or without Bullit's name, I was expected to be loyal.

"Thank you, Sir," I said, and made my voice sound the product of gratitude. Field Marshal Bullit's present was deliberately designed, as was everything he did in life, to create jealousy amongst his revolutionary drones.

"You can name the last Surface Raider off the production line after yourself, Jenkins."

Bullit knew Jenkins would work his fingers to the bone to get those ships finished, and roll the last massive grey predator out to sea, simply so he could see his own name emblazon on its bridge and inflate his own ego. It was habitual with Field Marshal Bullit, to ensure policy accelerated and his wishes bore fruit at the earliest opportunity.

"Thank you, Sir!" Said Jenkins, with grateful eyes, a large smile and respectful words, and little did he realise Bullit used the pair of us to push his project more rapidly towards an acceptable conclusion. We weren't the only ones he used: he did it with everyone, a promotion here, a promotion there. Majors leapfrogged Colonels to the next promotional rung of the ladder, civil servants were pushed up the country's infrastructure ahead of longer serving colleagues and all around the spiteful, bitter, resentful angst grew as each tried a little harder to recover their former status and appease the Field Marshal more. Britain, became the epitome of political jealously.

However, Bullit's totally uncompromising nature worked, it worked to such extents efficiency grew, military production rose, criminals felt the full force of the law and our standing in the world order magnified beyond recognition.

"How much do these each cost?" I asked, as I studied the pictures of Bullit's prized Surface Raider.

"Two hundred and fifty million each," replied Jenkins.

Two hundred and fifty million each, I thought. That meant, as Bullit proposed building fourteen of them, we were about to spend three and a half billion pounds on warships just to intimidate the rest of the world. And I could have wept at the squanderance of such precious resources, as our schools and hospitals at that time, still needed so much work done.

"What about other weapons programmes?" Demanded Bullit of Jenkins, as he looked to ensure all of his military projects were on schedule, not just the ones Jenkins wanted to inform him about.

"Gunships, helicopters, Harriers and Hawk jets are all proceeding at a rapid pace, Sir, as are our specialised weapons programmes..."

Specialised weapons programmes were all part of Bullit's elaborate, hi-tech development area, and included the ultra secret HALO project. Halo (The Hawk Low Observable) is Britain's top secret spy plane, developed after the Falklands war and never witnessed in public. Halo, was to be what the United Kingdom used instead of satellite technology to spy on other countries and was often mistaken for an alien spacecraft. It's large black, stealth design, and huge, perfectly black triangular construction ensured Halo's the world's most secret weapon. It's rumoured that Halo was commissioned after a very heated argument between the British and the Americans in 1983.

When the United Kingdom fought the Argentine forces during the Falklands war, they realised they only possessed one long-range bomber, and so, after that brief, but bloody war ended, Britain asked the Americans if they might purchase the new stealth B117 bombers.

It's said, when Thatcher approached Reagan he was all for the idea, but the USAF put the blocks on the deal, and declared their latest technology shouldn't be available to other countries. Undeterred by that snub, Britain pursued her own black-projects: and Halo was the resulting consequence. But HALO far exceeded expectation. Her stealth capabilities were more advanced than the American B117 and B2 spirit, and so the British deployed Halo as independent observational aircraft as well as a bomber.

When we came to power in 2006, Bullit read the list of munitions available to us and initiated a secondary project, and the new Halo, Mk2, was placed into production. Once commissioned, It could either drop air launched cruise missiles, laser guided bombs or a single nuclear, tactical battle field weapon. As well as being our eyes and ears behind enemy lines.

If we espouse that with Field Marshal Bullit's other latest, apocalyptic doomsday project 'Prometheus', we get a very frightening insight into what Britain became. Prometheus, became what was termed a phantom project to start with, one of those dreams Bullit so eagerly fantasised about, until our scientists turned fiction into a theoretical reality.

No nation on earth should have even considered doing what we did, but with a psychopath at the helm, any plan was considered acceptable to revolutionary ideology. Just like those scientists who had been neutered, and curtailed by previous administrations over their evil eugenics programmes, so our atomic scientists experienced the same scientific castration.

When Britain signed the United Nations non-proliferation treaty, new, improved weapons of mass-destruction were placed on hold: much to their endless frustration. But when we emerged victorious, certain scientists understood what we represented, and came crawling out of the woodwork.

An audience with the supreme commander, Bullit was sought.

One theory on the 'banned' list was the matter antimatter fusion weapon, a bomb of such horrendous proportions it makes me shake explaining its capability.

To comprehend what I write next, you must understand I am no scientist, and so I can only stipulate what the rumour mill set in motion during my time within the revolutionary council of the Motherland.

A group of top academics from Cambridge approached the Field Marshal with a proposal to explore the potential of constructing a bomb: a new type of bomb whose awesome power could literally evaporate not just the planet, but possibly our solar-system as well. A new type of bomb the likes have never been witnessed before. Yet its capability could send humanity to oblivion.

The Field Marshal liked the idea; in fact it excited him. Our academics promised to make Bullit, the most powerful man in the world.

The initial idea, was to expand existing nuclear technology and produce a weapon that can convert all mass to energy, not just a proportion of it as existing nuclear weapons do. Our scientists pledged, if developed, the device could turn an entire continent into an irradiated wasteland with one push of the nuclear button. But Bullit had an alternative plan. He decided, if the United Kingdom faced invasion or defeat in any future conflict, he'd destroy the planet. The bomb, once finally constructed was buried five miles down, central in the UK, and will be detonated if our country is ever seriously threatened.

As far as I'm aware, research and development commenced immediately and by 2011 Prometheus was complete, although the device was never actually tested for obvious reason. To test such a device would mean the extinction of humanity, its planet and all that upon it. And to this day, Prometheus remains hidden, its trigger ready to be armed, its potential, finite.

It must have taken Bullit a good forty-five minutes to grow bored with Jenkins, his pictures and plans, and once Bullit rose to his feet we joined him.

"What do you think of my plan to produce babies with my genes?" Asked Bullit, as he looked to Jenkins to validate his cloning programme. Bullit, always needed someone to validate his ideas, even if they were menial's like Jenkins. The man didn't matter, it was the words he spoke that counted. Just to hear people offer approval, regardless of their rank meant the project could move swiftly forwards. Jenkins, looked tacitly toward me for advice. I gave it.

"A wonderful plan, Sir..." Replied Jenkins, not knowing what he endorsed, and showed no concern for its eventual outcome. If Bullit canvassed Jenkins' opinion to blow-up the world, Jenkins, and everyone else for that matter would have proclaimed the infinite wisdom to it. But in fairness to them, we were all too scared of Bullit to offer an alternative view. We all did as we were told.

"Then that's sorted," declared Bullit, satisfied we agreed with him. But the muttering's in secluded corners were anything other than an agreement. In private, we all held sever reservations of his new scheme, but as the years rolled precariously by, none of us would mention them; in fact we would go out of our way to avoid the subject.

I watched, as Jenkins tried to retrieve his cap from Max. As he cautiously approached, the dog would wait until he was within proximity, and then bolt around the large acreage of room, treating Jenkins' hat like a rag-doll in his mouth. Bullit, eventually retrieved the hat for him. And it made me smile, as Jenkins placed the cap on his head, with the teeth marks still visible along the rim. The skull and crossbones was missing. They lay crunched in small pieces over by Bullit's desk.

The braiding was torn, and hung like spaghetti down the side, and Max sat there expecting to play some more. His big bold black and tan face wanting to continue the game, his huge pink tongue flopping out the side of his mouth, and his face alert. Jenkins saluted, turned and left the room, with the dog in pursuit. Bullit, called Max back, and decided to have one final attempt at persuading me to join his genetics programme.

And once again, I expressed my desire to marry the old fashioned way. Bullit, warned me to make it sooner rather than later. He said I needed to set an example to the youth of our country. But I saw it more as him trying to exert his influence over my private live. Bullit, like the Prime Minister before him, was a control freak.

I managed to avoid Bullit's machination's, his artifice in marrying me off for at least another seven years, as my time in office proved an absolute hedonistic round of parties, freebies and extra-curricular activity, once the day-to-day running of office was accomplished. There was no end to the excitement, the Champagne lifestyle, the concerts, premieres and junkets. And with my party position I managed to frivolously waste tens of millions of pounds of the tax-payers money, on every kind of extravagance imaginable. I could have screwed for Britain; models, actresses, TV presenters: you name them, I had them! But as the old aphorism says, eventually all good things must come to an end, and when Bullit's unrelenting pressure finally reached a point I could no longer resist, I decided to marry Jackie, my only real love. And I did love her, regardless of my previous pleasures. I just happened to be a bit of a sexual rogue that's all. My attitude toward the opposite sex was never lascivious, like Harry Chambers, merely opportunistic. (And I'm sorry, but that's just the way I am.)

But to keep Bullit happy, I had to convince Jackie the prospect of marriage was a good idea. Which wasn't that difficult. Because Jackie was like most women. Jackie, saw what she wanted to see, she heard what she wanted to hear, and the poor misguided girl believed every empty word of it.