When any new political party first commences its life as a government a certain amount of thought has to be given to how it will operate, what its policies are and how the people might react to any dramatic changes made: unless of course it comes to power through revolution. Then attitudes change.

A revolutionary government has the option to push through policies most democratic administrations would never consider, and The British Independence Party was no different in that respect. Our party leader Tony Bullit really had two agendas. The one he endorsed before the revolution and the one he would enact after the revolution.

Before the revolution Bullit offered the usual platitudes to keep the electorate happy, just as all government and official opposition parties do. Schools and hospitals were high priorities, as was transport and pensions. But in office those fundamental promises were soon relegated to desires, and aspirations as other more pressing matters absorbed Bullit's time. Suddenly, schools and hospitals found themselves the victim of swingeing cuts, as Bullit sought to re-militarise his armed forces and push through legislation on more racist issues. But to achieve that he needed the peoples' consent.

After the initial fighting ceased, we moved swiftly to Downing Street to view our hard earned prize. We left party headquarters early next morning in procession. Six black Range Rovers with tinted windows were hurriedly assembled to ferry the victorious leaders of the British Independence Party to London. I travelled in the rear vehicle and was just as ecstatic as the rest of our party when I noticed the well-wishers lined along the streets. I had never witnessed anything like it for a political party in all my life. It was crazy. Millions of people throughout the country poured out on to the pavements, spilled over into the roads and symbolically showered our vehicles in flowers as we headed towards our capital city to take up office. The last time the UK witnessed anything like that was when they buried poor old Princess Di.

Three times the cavalcade stopped so the drivers could clear flowers from the bonnet, push the crowd from our path and simply allow Bullit the opportunity to raise himself on the back seat and wave to the adorning people of the United Kingdom. And it all appeared so genuine as the crowds celebrated the removal of what they saw as a corrupt, crony riddled government, filled with privileged friends of the prime minister, who failed to listen to their wishes and desires. But worse was to come for the people of Britain, as the BIP slowly consolidated its hold on power and strangled any prospect of democratic rule within the remit of parliamentary democracy.

However, Bullit understood the severity of the situation and sought to implement his desire in a peace-meal fashion, rather than just hit the country with a raft of unpopular legislation they neither desired or wanted. Therefore he cleverly constructed in the coming months a 'rainbow referendum' which lacked clarity. All the proposals upon it seemed to offer the people what they wished, but simultaneous his proposals incorporated an ambit of lateral policies the revolution backed.

George Shaw, later to be known as 'The Angel of Death' for reasons which will become apparent, distorted the chosen wishes of our people when he ordered me to pressure the media once we fully established ourselves in office.

Our motorcade reached London three hours after we initially set off, even though we only had 15 miles to travel. We crawled at a snail's pace for most of the journey and eventually entered London itself like Mark Anthony returning to Rome from Egypt. It was absolute chaos as our procession ventured into the city centre, where I saw people massed in their hundreds of thousands, as our car turned the corner towards Downing Street. People were everywhere. A sea of humanity stretched as far as the eye could see and their praise seemed so authentic as our convoy drew to a halt outside the black iron gate of Downing Street itself .

Dressed in his military uniform of combat clothes and maroon beret, and silver flash badge of the parachute regiment, Bullit stepped from his vehicle and approached the gates themselves. The gates where British soldiers fought so heroically for the liberation of their beloved land and grateful people.

On the pavement, blood had been hurriedly covered over with sawdust, and all that remained was a few dozen sporadic dark patches were soldiers fell. For a moment the jubilation of the crowd died with them. It subsided to a moment's silence as the victory was sacrificed for the humility of the action. As Big Ben chimed in the background, Bullit called his adjutant over with a simple snap of his fingers, and a Captain from the parachute regiment bounded towards him with a large reef in his hands. Bullit took the flowers from him and walked solemnly forwards, took a large step up on to the pavement and placed the tribute, so it was propped-up against a support wall. He stepped back, stood bolt upright and saluted as I leapt from my vehicle and savoured the sense of power. You could smell it all around you. It was what I waited all my young life for, and only ever considered it a reality in my dreams.

But by a quirk of fate I stood on the cusp of greatness, and I relished the thought as Major Bullit dropped his arm back to his side and moved victoriously into Downing Street, with the crowd once again cheering.

With half a dozen long military strides I caught up with Bullit and looked on amazed at the damage inflicted on the buildings and Street. It all seemed so vicious, so bloody brutal.

"Take a look around you, Michael," shouted Bullit, his powerful voice an echo as he scrutinised the battle damage. "This is where young men gave their lives for their country. A place where you and me will right the injustices committed against our people. We'll make a difference, Michael," he promised.

It felt somewhat strange to wander amongst a place that only the day before witnessed sustained and heavy fighting, where young men fell to the ferocity of gunfire, and I felt humbled, yet excited by it all. I felt humbled, yet guilty, because those young men left families; mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, and perhaps it was our own ambition of power that resigned them to a cold and lonely grave.

Around me buildings lay peppered with huge bullet holes, the concrete blasted from them by heavy machine gun fire, and the usual elegantly decorated facade lay scattered about us. There was debris everywhere, and up ahead I saw a few people mill around in anticipation of our arrival. They stood collectively by the black door of No10 and waited patiently for Bullit to stroll the hundred or so yards to greet them. Bullit, appeared in no hurry as he constantly surveyed the battle scares that all conflict, without exception, leaves. I followed two or three paces behind, as other party members almost unable to contain their excitement quickened their pace to catch us up.

Bullit, pointed with his cane to demonstrate just how authoritative he was on military issues and he even managed to accurately identify what weapons created the damage simply by analysing the impact wounds.

On the steps of No10 stood two security guards dressed in white shirts, black trousers and ties, and their recognition of the new government seemed friendly as each in turn saluted. Bullit, politely responded by touching his forelock with his cane, and then took a huge breath as he crossed the threshold into the house.

There was a clinging sense of burnt materials inside and although the house had been quickly cleaned, it was a smell that either couldn't or wouldn't leave. It was as if it lay testament to the previous day's action, as though it still wished to protest its disgust at what we all did to our country, and maybe it was right, maybe we should have all felt ashamed of ourselves for letting our lovely land degenerate to such irretrievable levels and revolution.

Bullit's heavy, steel studded army boots sounded hollow as he moved fully into the house, as they scrunched on the black and white marble floor. He stopped immediately he entered, took a few moments to look around him at the photographic record of previous prime ministers looking judgemental down upon us from the staircase, and then continued through the building, avoiding where possible the fallen masonry.

Ahead of us, waited a rather pompous civil servant and slightly behind him, in a more inferior position two more government cronies. He extended his hand warmly to greet Bullit who stood statuesque in front of him uncertain of the gesture.

"Staugthon, Sir," introduced the civil servant, his voice seeming to emanate through his nostrils as he spoke. It was very public school, very refined and the way he looked down his long pointed nose made it seem as though he sneered at Bullit. "Parliamentary private secretary to the prime minister," added Staughton as he informed Bullit of his position and rank within cabinet circles. Bullit looked unimpressed by Staughton's offer, and instead chose to momentarily study the man rather than offer his hand in return.

It was true to say Tony Bullit was a former officer with the elite parachute regiment, but he was no gentleman. Bullit, wasn't part of that upper-middle class clique Staughton came from. Bullit was working class, a man who earned his promotion the hard way. Bullit, joined the parachute regiment in his teenage years and saw action in the Falklands. He had more tours of duty in Northern Ireland than you could shake a stick at and undertook special forces training with the SAS. Bullit severed 900 miles behind enemy lines in the gulf war, where he located and blew up scud missiles, was captured and tortured by Iraqi troops, and was then promoted to officer on his return to the UK.

"So you're the people that have messed the country up," retorted Bullit, as he eventually accepted Staughton's hand. He looked unemotional as he accused the man and his fellow civil servants of incompetence, and Staughton smiled as if Bullit's critique a joke. But it wasn't. Bullit, truly believed nepotism and the class structure was what caused most of our ills in the United Kingdom, and his contempt for them was only exceeded by his revulsion of them. "Well?" Asked Bullit, breaking hands.

"Well what, Sir?" Inquired Staughton, bemused. He looked blankly at me.

Bullit, reiterated. "I said, so you're the people who messed the country up? Do you think you've messed the country up? Well?"

"I believe we've all been victims of circumstance, Sir."

Bullit scoffed as he pushed past Staughton, past the other two civil servants and deeper through the house and into the cabinet room. I followed on, silently behind, understanding it best not to speak to Bullit until you're spoken too. Bullit had a vile disregard for anyone who interjected, and his volatile temper could often cause outright hostility to anyone who broke the code. It was better to let him speak first and not spoil his big occasion on taking office as I thought him already drunk on power and he hadn't been in the room two minutes.

It was almost as though you could smell his ideas, his plans and grandiose schemes for putting the Great back into Britain as he ambled his way around a huge, oblong table, letting his fingers gently brush the backs of the seats while the rest of us stood by the door anticipating his actions.

Bullit hesitated at the central position, that throne normally reserved for the prime minister, the place slightly more pronounced and more distinct from the rest. He pulled the chair back, slipped around it and positioned himself so his arms reached out and his hands lay flat to the table as he savoured a magical moment in history.

George Shaw, and Harry Chambers, quickly pushed past me, found themselves two seats opposite Bullit and surveyed the room with corrupt eyes; their expressions revealed them not to be men of breeding; they acted more like excitable teenagers entrusted with a position that far out exceeded their capability. And I got the feeling they were about to make a profound mess of the whole endeavour.

Bullit looked pained as he thought. I noticed something upset him by the way his forehead frowned; so I enquired. Bullit, contemplated my question, and then answered in an instructive way. "You not think I should be at the head of the table, Michael?"

My God, command had automatically gone to his head and he instantly elevated his status to a higher domain: he was in charge and wanted everyone to know it. He sprang-up from his seat and moved to the far end of the room, where he positioned his chair and shuffled, making himself comfortable before informing us all he could keep a watchful eye on us. Shaw, and Chambers, offered praise to Bullit's idea as both simultaneous eyed up the prime minister's seat opposite, and you could tell from the way they carried on that this was a symbolic place each eagerly wanted to claim themselves. I was only surprised they didn't fight their way over the desk to reach it.

Within thirty minutes the room filled with party officials, most too inferior to even mention. They were Bullit's yes men and women. They were the revolution's rubber stamp, did as they were told. It didn't do anything for one's career to have an opposing view to Bullit's. I was eventually placed next to him at the top narrow end of the table on his right hand side. That gesture was symbolic to, as he made apparent, much to the consternation of both Chambers and Shaw, and in doing so Bullit unintentionally provided me with at least one jealous back-stabbing enemy.

At that point our arrival seemed a bit of a joke; even Bullit himself created spontaneous laughter from cabinet members by offering witty observations.

"Does anyone know how to run a country?" He asked, frivolous. I thought his question very prophetic as the only people who really did know how to run our country were those three civil servants who stood by the door; and they looked horrified that Bullit might even contemplate such an idea. Staughton made an uninvited comment; and that was not a clever decision. I found that out early on, and Staughton found it out too, as he stood towering in the doorway. He remarked to Bullit, impertinently:

"Before you decide to run the country, Sir, it might be wise to ask the people at the ballot box, their permission, in an election."

Basically, what Staughton referred to, was the fact neither Bullit or the BIP had been elected. They had accelerated themselves to those dizzy heights by good fortune and military action, and Staughton was still under the misguided impression Bullit was only a temporary factor in a democratic equation, and that was bloody stupid, because Bullit saw himself there for the duration.

Bullit's face enveloped that disappointed look which conveyed betrayal and made him view Staughton as an opponent determined to bring his heroic victory to an untimely end. Bullit, lifted to his feet. He was fired up, ready to dispense his own sense of justice, and that never came verbally alone. It was always accompanied by hostile action. Bullit, was a soldier; he knew nothing else. He forced his way around the table knocking seated people out of his path, approached Staughton, stopped immediately before him and glared up at the man who was a good inch taller than him.

"What d'you say?" Demanded Bullit, forcefully.

"I merely pointed out, Sir that this is an interim measure until the people avail themselves of the ballot box and we decide on a political course of action. If the BIP is elected the civil service will assist in all possible avenues to construct a cohesive framework we are all comfortable with."

Before I could stop Bullit, he reached out and wrapped Staughton's tie around his fist and then dragged the man dog like through the elegant rooms of Downing Street, until they both fell through the front door and out onto the main street. A barrage of camera flashes exploded as the world's TV cameras witnessed their first, but not last taste of Bullit's volatile nature, and he dragged Staughton, much to his protest along the street, screaming obscenities at him as they went. Bullit, stopped abruptly by the main gates, and wrenched down on Staughton so hard, he collapsed to his knees.

"What the hell's that?" Yelled Bullit, as he pointed at the road.

Staughton, confessed amongst his chocking that it was dried blood covered over by the fire brigade earlier that morning, and he begged Bullit to release him and stop making such a show of himself. I followed on, but kept a sensible, safe distance, because I knew Bullit could turn on people, and if I attempted to interfere at that stage I to might have incurred his wrath.

"That!" screamed Bullit, harshly, "is the blood of heroes. Young boys who fought and died for people like you to live in freedom."

I assumed Bullit's words were carefully calculated. It was true to say he was enraged, but that didn't prohibit Bullit exploiting the situation as the media in their hundreds stood frozen by his actions, opposite. It was a scene where they weren't quite sure whether or not it was stage managed. But that was how Bullit continuously acted in the eleven years I knew him. One day he was your friend, and you couldn't wish a better one, yet the next day, just as you started to like, even admire him, all hell would break loose. He'd fly into a rage, scream and shout at everyone for no apparent reason, and then become excessively violent. And I soon witnessed over the coming years how Bullit's sadistic nature often got the better of him. No one was exempt.

I doubled back, crossed the road, with my arms open wide to move the press farther back and explain the best I could how Major Bullit's admiration for those fallen soldiers overwhelmed him. I accused Staughton of making some offensive remark to their honour and how Bullit's love of his country had been insulted. I said any patriot would have done the same thing. But I never believed that. My excuse was meretricious to say the least, and even as I spoke I heard Bullit ranting in the distance, his language loaded with expletives, his voice becoming hoarse through shouting, and the rest of the street feeling intimidated; myself included. Even the soldiers who stood guard in the immediate vicinity clutching rifles, looked disturbed.

Bullit finished with Staughton, in the same ruthless manner as he started, he pushed the man so hard he landed on all fours on the floor, the flats of his hands on top of the dried blood, and stormed back towards No10. He moved swiftly with his mind concentrated on other things as I chased after him whilst still trying to placate the media, that by then had the story and the pictures they wanted.

Inside Downing Street, Bullit continued to yell. He despatched his orders, and Staughton's treatment ensured no one questioned them. We were all too scared to upset the bully as he told the civil service and Staughton when he finally staggered in, that he wanted everyone back at work tomorrow. Bullit, said he'd make it a personal offence, punishable by prison if they didn't return to work next day. He said they had a duty, a responsibility to the country and the people to ensure public services returned to normal as soon as possible, and I truly believed things were never going to be normal again. The revolution was a watershed.

We gave him a mandate to run our country without realising what sort of despot he really was.

He barged past other party members, seated himself at the far end of the table and instructed me to invite twenty members of the press to meet him. It was to be a personal meeting and other new government colleagues were not invited to stay. They were given orders to familiarise themselves with their new positions and meet back with him next morning. It was chaos as they left. I saw none of them had a clue where they were going or what they should be doing, and all of them, without exception, were too frightened to mention it.

The situation was reminiscent of school where a child is too fearful to raise their hand and ask the teacher to repeat a question, and for the BIP that behaviour became addictive. Whenever Bullit instructed or ordered someone to do something they didn't know how to, he'd explode. Bullit always insisted, in the army you're supposed to use your initiative, and if you couldn't you weren't up to the job, and so over the coming years elementary mistakes were often made, simply because ministers never consulted with each other.

As I hurriedly collected twenty journalists from across the road, other party members left the building, each trying desperately to gather what information they could en-route. I tried to tell the press, about fifteen men, five women not to anger him. But I informed them carefully as I had no insight into what they would write next day, and I didn't want to receive the familiar backlash. So I made an excuse. I told them it had been a long week, and Bullit, hero of the people was under pressure, so their support would be greatly appreciated.

But by the time we entered the cabinet room Bullit's attitude changed beyond recognition. He was all smiles. He told the British media enthusiastically to come in, take a seat and make themselves comfortable. He even apologised for treating Staughton the way he did. Bullit, told them he was outraged at Staughton's manner, and said those dead soldiers were like his own children. They were the soldiers he served with, helped train in some cases, and their heroic action and subsequent deaths left him feeling empty inside.

As all of us gathered around the cabinet table, his outburst was momentarily forgotten, and Bullit played down his role as hero of the revolution.

"It could have been anyone," he quipped, modestly when asked.

Just like everyone else I watched as he removed his pistol from its holster and laid it flat on the table in front of himself saying it was uncomfortable around his waist.

But I, like the rest of his impromtu court saw other motives. In fact I was probably more fearful than them, because I wouldn't have put it past him to shoot someone if they upset him. But his action did concentrate the mind. That deliberately placed big black .45 automatic pistol held peoples' attention, and stopped them from asking the questions they wanted to ask as Bullit used his most famous tactic, the philosophy of Caesar: 'The greatest fear you can instill into anyone is fear itself.'

He wanted those people scared of him; he wanted all of us scared of him, and by God it worked.

He sat there at the far end of a huge long table and absorbed the kudos bestowed upon him. He loved every minute of it, and I stood by the door, as far from Bullit as was humanly possible at that juncture in time.

"Down here, Michael, by my side," he called, and snapped his fingers. Everyone in the room turned, as I forced a smile and strolled the length of the room, and then seated myself on a green leather parliamentary chair with gold portcullis on back. I laid my paperwork on the table before me as Bullit wound his arm fatherly around my shoulders, dragged me close and gave me a good squeeze. He informed everyone in the room I was responsible for the success of the revolution, and they applauded with a slow hand clap of politeness. Now, I would like to be remembered for many things in life, as anyone would, but presiding over that fiasco was not particularly one of them.

"When history writes of this moment," declared Bullit, proudly, "they'll put Michael's name there at the top of the list with mine." He added.

Good God!, I was to be judged by the outcome of that new parliamentary adventure. I had thoughts of trials at the Hague, and all I desired was to distance myself as far from the calamity as possible. I understood all I was to be was a press officer, but suddenly I was treated like Castro.

"A few words for the media, Michael?" prompted a young female journalist from The Guardian. Her name was Emily Rooker, whom I knew from years back, and her action was not innocent. She could see how I felt and played me for her own amusement. Bullit, watched me stoney faced and judgemental.

"Just pleased that corrupt regime has gone," I replied, indifferent.

"Couldn't have put it better myself," interjected Bullit, his face alive with smiles. "A corrupt regime of selfish politicians that sucked the people of this country dry have been booted out," he crowed. "They," he said, pointing behind himself to emphasise the nation: "They have risen up and made the ultimate sacrifice with the blood of their children on the streets; they fought like tigers to liberate this land. And we'll not give up our liberty for anyone." He roared with some conceited passion.

I observed journalists as they scribbled away, their heads down, their notepads open. Every word Bullit spoke was recorded for posterity and my name was among it, and I knew I too would be judged in the same vain as him. I associated my name with his and the two were eternally, inextricably linked. But I also knew it productive to keep on Bullit's good side. I feared him more than I feared any court in any foreign land, as the worst they could do if things went horribly wrong, was lock me up.

But Bullit had that big pistol before him and he'd seal my fate with one pull of the trigger, and so at that time it suited me to remain reticent, to support party policy; whatever that was? I was never privy to party policy on anything: and when asked I was told it not my concern. In fact, as I found out some months later the only party policy we had was what Bullit either made up on the hoof or kept to himself through fear of upsetting people.

The revolution was a one man band, and the more I became involved the less I liked it. Bullit, informed the gathered media things would change, that we'd abandon those failed ideas of yesterday and move less selfishly forwards to a brave new tomorrow. But it wasn't true, not a word of it. Bullit, actually meant we wouldn't endorse the failed policies of yesterday, but we would endorse the failed policies of yesteryear. He hankered after empire, supremacy, Brittania ruling the waves with huge swathes of land under British imperial control. And his idol was Adolf Hitler. Bullit had a natural hatred of anything that wasn't British or Nazi, wasn't white and didn't speak English. Bullit, was xenophobic to the soles of his military boots.

"So what are your policies?" Asked Brian Little of the Times.

It was an honest, fair enough question any reasonable person might expect a journalist to ask of the chosen leader of their land. But Bullit had a warped sense of priority. He still warmed his seat, and the fact the man threw him sent a mind altering change through Bullit's psyche. I swallowed hard when I saw Bullit frown, as the frown always preceded the backlash. It was similar to a thunder storm, where you see the lightning - and then a few seconds later thunder rumbles. Bullit, had similar attributes. First the frown, and then the explosion of temper, and I assumed that was why he constantly took pills.

"What are you people?" He accused. His face turned emotionless, gaunt, totally devoid of any reason. "We haven't even buried our dead yet and you want to discuss ways to fill your column inches."

I saw him reach instinctively for his gun and raise ever so slightly from his seat; so I reclined in my chair. I thought if he was going to shoot someone I wasn't going to get in the way. Brian Little, apologised profusely, he insisted he was only attempting to convey a message to the wider public, and inform them of what to expect in the coming months. Bullit, seated himself slowly. He calmed himself, removed his hand from the weapon and feeling it in his interest, capitulated. Bullit, even offered an empty apology. He said:

"You're right, Brian, I'm sorry. Forgive me. It's just those poor, poor boys still lay un-buried in the morgue and I have to write to their parents and offer my sympathy. But no doubt that will be of little comfort to them."

Bullit motivated his words with much conviction, so much so he nearly even convinced me. He had the voice of a well rehearsed actor and carried off a scene with the utmost professionalism. Bullit, knew Brian Little of The Times would report every word he spoke and that contrived act was just another way of how Bullit instilled into our people the conviction he had for the ordinary people in the street. Bullit, always wanted to be seen as one of them.

"We have a massive task ahead of us ladies and gentlemen. We have to build our country up once again from the ashes of failed politics and that Eroupean nightmare to the height of expectation."

"So massive investment then?" Asked Peter Blake, of the Daily Express.

"Don't interrupt!" Scolded Bullit.

Blake was put down by Bullit with a short retort. It wasn't really enough to cause the man embarrassment, but it was enough to make him look uncomfortable, and that sense of put down would be expressed in his news paper next day, and when Bullit read it the following morning Blake would find he made a very powerful enemy. Bullit wasn't the type of man who could forget, and he most certainly couldn't forgive. He was the type of man who allowed any small criticism to eat away at him until he saw it as a personal attack on his character, and Bullit's own paranoia often got the better of him in the following years, meaning many men paid for it with their lives. Peter Blake, would be no different. He was shot 3 years later by firing squad for treason.

"Our first job should be to reverse the politically correct Gestapo that have suppressed the masses," I interjected. I didn't like the way Emily Rooker teased me earlier, and saw it as a good opportunity to hit back. I understood Bullit's hatred of liberals and all they stood for, and saw that as a chance to exercise my power in his company. Emily Rooker could witness my closeness to Bullit, and make a choice accordingly, and as I spoke, Bullit praised.

"You've hit the nail on the head, Michael," he complemented.

"Most advertisements for local or government jobs are offered through The Guardian," I added, "so perhaps we should use different outlets to offer those administrative posts..."

"Get rid of them altogether!" Barked Bullit. "I can't stand this gut wrenching society filled with trendies, sycophants and lefties." He moaned.

I smiled delicately to myself as Emily Rooker glared at Bullit's rant and I preyed she'd rise to the bait. I wasn't disappointed. Emily, called Bullit a bigot, right to his face! She accused him of being a right wing zealot and power mad. Bullit, reclined in his chair, studied her quietly, and I thought he'd explode. But much to my endless frustration he didn't. If I thought he was going to scream at her, I was wrong. In fact he admired her outburst and praised her conviction, even if it was, as he said, channelled in the wrong direction: he said he could work with people with conviction. Emily, told him not to patronise her. She suggested his tenure would be ephemeral and both he and the British Independence Party probably wouldn't be in office that long.

"When the people come to their senses," she said, "this interim government's life will cease to exist. You know nothing of government," she continued.

Bullit's fingers started to tap the table; I could see Emily Rooker annoyed him, and her antagonistic attitude became confrontational to say the least. She misunderstood Bullit's ambition: he wasn't interested in government or politics, he was interested in power, and so I sprang to his defence.

"The best leaders emerge through revolution." I stated. "Our history tells us that and when the going gets tough true leaders are pushed forcefully to the front. The Major here never sought office himself, it was thrust upon him by circumstances and his courage and conviction will weather us good in the future," I argued, as Bullit listened silently next to me.

Emily Rooker told me I talked nonsense. She said our future lay in Europe whether we liked it or not and we had no option but to eventually join with the European union and accept our fate.

"Do you really think Europe's armed forces are not going to retaliate for your actions?" She asked, candidly.

"D'you think our boys not up to the job of defending you?" Responded Bullit, and his icy stare never detracted or left her.

He began to view her as a traitor, not as an honest exponent of the media. Emily's words did make sense, there was no treaty with Europe to stop any further fighting, but there was no reports of troop movements from that side of the channel either. Bullit, gambled they wouldn't continue the fight, but I, like most of us had my doubts. I couldn't see them giving up on the world's fourth richest economy.

"So what do you suggest, my dear?" Asked Bullit, chauvinistically.

"You'll have to negotiate soon so why not get it over and done with and let us enter Europe on our terms, our conditions. We could be a strong central player: one whose voice is respected." She suggested.

"What do you think, Michael?" Inquired Bullit, as he stared directly ahead.

"Fight them in every town, every city. Fight them from street to street, door to door if necessary. Fight them till the last drop of British blood is spilt on our streets; accept our fate is in God's hands." I roused, jingoistically.

I thought I'd tell Bullit what he wanted to hear rather than what made sense. Those were not sensible times and Bullit's ego really didn't need to be challenged so early on. He needed to feel important, not have someone undermine him. Emily Rooker, turned her attack on me. We had known each other distantly over the years and had a mutual dislike of one another, as her paper was left wing, while my former middle-class tabloid was always conspicuously to the right. We were media adversaries, but it wasn't personal, we just stood on opposite sides of the fence. She told me I was deluded if I thought one nation could take on fifteen, and out numbered and poorer we stood little or no chance of victory. And Emily implied we could salvage a great future for ourselves if we regained some semblance of reality. I disagreed. Well actually I didn't, but I did for Bullit's sake.

We were in a state of limbo and that capricious situation could have gone either way. But at that moment in time Bullit was in charge and so it was him I pandered too. If columns of European troops and tanks had trundled down the Mall later, I planned on pandering to them too. Emily Rooker, endorsed a confrontational policy of the past where politicians were insulted by ambitious journalists and the worst possible reprisal would be their next interview cancelled. But the newly promoted Field Marshal Bullit concentrated Emily Rooker's mind, when he asked her quite honestly:

"Do you consider yourself a fifth columnist? A Quisling?"

He was deadly serious, and I impress the word deadly. The fact Emily was a woman would not have stood in his way of offering retribution, instant justice or execution. Bullit might have liked conviction, but insubordination was a different thing. He began to view Emily Rooker as rebellious, and Bullit instinctively never liked anything he didn't have absolute control over.

"She's right," said Blake, supporting Emily's position. "As much as we'd all like to support you here, your position is untenable. You have no policies, no costed expenditure plan, no direction and no sense of administration. Your colleagues are running around like headless chickens -and any sense of order will be lost very quickly. You should call an election in six months, return the country to its roots, and that way we can all accept the BIP did a fantastic job under difficult circumstances and the nation will be eternally grateful," argued Blake.

Blake's was the voice of reason. A sane man who viewed things objectively, even if his paper did have tinges of left wing ideology gilding its edges.

"That's what you all think, is it?" Asked Bullit, his normally loud voice unusually low and audible. I watched their heads nod in agreement. There was a resentful consensus amongst the gathered media that Bullit was not the man for the job and his methodology would not sustain the UK through the turbulent years ahead of us. Bullit lifted, and turned to view out of the window a chaotic street beyond and remained inanimate. He stood with his hands locked behind his back, his thoughts distant.

It was as if the British media took the fight from him, shattered his dreams and left him a broken man. But from the brief period I had known him, I knew Bullit wouldn't vacillate. He was the type of person who would fight alone if necessary and those upper-middle class pen pushers would not deter him. He turned to face a silent room filled with people, leaned back so his buttocks rested on the window ledge and surveyed them all individually. Bullit folded his arms defiantly, and then said authoritatively:

"So I'm alone, am I?"

It was a challenge. That was the point where we chose sides, and only I in that big room crammed with journalists fully understood the implications. And just as most of those people over the years misread or ignored the feelings of a nation's population, they ignored and disregarded Bullit's authority. They had been featherbedded far too long, were rebellious in their nature and complacent to the winds which ravaged our land.

Back then, things were about to change, abruptly if necessary, and those stoics knew nothing of what was to come. The way Bullit threw the paras in against overwhelming odds should have told them, the way he laid his pistol on the table should have warned them, but they still either refused or defied the reality of what happened around them. Emily Rooker, thought she could insult him, Blake thought he could patronise him and Brian Little thought he could occupy an air of superiority. And only I decided to stand squarely with Bullit and cement my loyalty.

"You're a good boy, Michael," he whispered. "A brave boy."

I wasn't, if anything I was a coward. But an intelligent coward. Throughout history revolution has happened - and the blood-letting followed. It seemed indicative of any rebellion to spill blood afterwards and appease the masses with a touch of revenge. And I'm sorry, but I didn't want my blood spilt.

"You make me sick," said Bullit, softly. "We bring about freedom by the sacrifice of your fellow countrymen and you still want to sell us to some foreign superstate," he added, his voice raising. He screamed: "Well I, and people like me won't let that happen. If I have to take everyone of you kicking and screaming with me, by God, you'll go!"

He became animate, moving around the table so he extended his body into their faces, and let them feel the saliva from his mouth. He closed on Emily Rooker first, leant on the table ape like making her scroll, and screamed:

"You and your liberals are responsible for this unholy mess."

I really wanted to say I told you so, but it didn't seem appropriate when Bullit was in one of his lecturing mood. The veins on his temples expanded so much they stood varicose and his face became flushed. I thought how those stupid people had witnessed Staughton's treatment at the man's hands and they were still prepared to upset him. But maybe they weren't stupid, maybe they did it deliberately to see how far he'd go and naturally see how much copy they could produce from it. But, I doubt it.

"For years you've satisfied no one but yourselves," yelled Bullit, as he threw the occassional arm around the table to accuse them all ubiquitous.

"You," he indicated, and pointed a stabbing finger in Blake's general direction, "couldn't even keep on the same side you supported at the last election. One year it's the Tories and the next it's the Labour party, and now what?" Demanded Bullit. He growled, "now you don't know because you've screwed yourselves up so much, you neither know whether you're coming or going..."

Blake, protested strongly. He said, "our newspaper has a coherent agenda that supports public opinion. And we represent the public view without bias."

Bullit, leant in his face so Blake could taste his breath and told him: "You don't have any policy except filling your own pockets. You'll support any shyster or mercenary that pays your wages and when your editor says jump, you ask how high? And you expect me to respect your opinion. Well I wouldn't wipe my arse with your opinion. You are all non-people," screamed Bullit.

He stood, turned his back on them and took a couple of steps away from the table, turned back to face them and insulted them some more. He just couldn't help himself. It was Bullit at his best, his most vicious, his most aggressive, and they looked on in absolute bisbelief.

"Look at you all," he said, and gestured with another open arm motion.

"Timid rabbits, the lot of you. You think people respect the bullshit you feed them each day when most hate the sight of you..."

At that stage, I believed our time in office would end abruptly. It was tomorrow's headlines being written by a man who had no perception of how the media worked. Or at least that's how I viewed it. He continued to shout for a further fifteen minutes, and then had them all evicted. Journalists were ushered out of Downing Street, and Bullit still screamed at them as they crossed the threshold. In fact he shouted at them, all twenty of them all the way down the road and told the camera crews opposite what they could do as well.

And I believed our nation would be outraged by his tantrum. But quite the opposite happened. They loved every emotive minute of it. Back inside Downing Street, in Bullit's private office, I was summoned to help resolve a seemingly insoluble problem with no perceivable solution. Bullit, sat behind a large mahogany desk of leather bound top with his hands held in prayer fashion. His temper quickly abated as I entered his new office and crossed the plush blue carpeted floor to stand subordinate before him.

"I've messed up, haven't I, Michael?"

"Not necessarily," I replied.

While Bullit hollowed out of control at the media I put on my thinking cap and sought a solution. I soon came to realise we'd need an escape route from his temper and it was something I'd become very good at over the coming years; his outbursts, my rescue plans. But at that time we faced a hostile press who would naturally be intent on slandering us next day. The headlines didn't even bear thinking about. So I advised him to reverse the decision the former administration made when the nation's newspapers collectively refused to support government entry into a single European currency, and the former prime minister threatened to halt any foreign ownership of the media.

The plan was well under way, and having been employed by a foreign owned tabloid newspaper I understood how much they were about to financially lose. It was a small fortune, and so I advised Bullit to make several very quick phone calls and reaffirm ownership of our press to its rightful proprietors: let them keep their newspapers, and let us control the stories they published. It wasn't the best option, but it was, at that juncture in time, the only option. We were up shitcreek without a paddle and that seemed a better alternative than weeks of factional fighting with the press. I knew how vicious they were likely to be in print, and so I advised Bullit that a few apologetic telephone calls could alter the course of events.

"They won't print what I said?" He asked.

I told him there was little or nothing I could do about the TV cameras, as they transmitted live, but the newspapers we could control. We could establish a working relationship with them, where we obtained our version of events each time and they continued to rake in their profits. I instinctively knew the deal would be acceptable.

And so that's what happened. Bullit, calmed himself. He ordered Staughton to contact the media barons and then spent most of that late July afternoon discussing details with them. By late that evening I took over. Bullit, made me minister of propaganda, although I never called myself that in public, and from then on I sinisterly cultivated a campaign of intimidation; and if the newspapers thought the last government twisted arms they had seen nothing. Over the coming years British newspapers were to be perceived as no more than puppets of a State run society, and they did without question as they were told.