A Day In The Life: Michael Fallon

Ben Mountain

We sat nervously in a vast, furnished oak office, drowning in a sea of stuffy leather that half propped us up to face an eternal marble desk. We were accompanied by two women, needless to say; only these weren’t the young and attractive types one might expect to find in the office of a sex pest.

No, these women were fierce. They were symbols of absolute power and authority. The steely glare of Margaret Thatcher and Queen Victoria did little to ease our nerves as they stared down upon us from gilded, towering picture frames.

A trumpet blew. “The Right Honourable Sir Michael Fallon KCB MP” was announced. The man in question glided in, a slightly smug grin prevailing over his face.

Resting gently on the edge of his desk, Fallon welcomed us with a cold conviviality as he gripped our hands. He asked how we were and, not wanting to be deceitful – not that he would have minded, of course – told him we were feeling a touch nervous.

“You needn’t be, believe me.” Sir Michael Fallon slowly leant forward and placed a hand on each of our knees, softly squeezing as he did so.

The Grandmother of Europe and old Maggie didn’t seem so frightful after that.

But before we go on, we’ll explain things a little further. Last week, we’d arranged to shadow the Conservative MP and Secretary of State for Defence, Sir Michael Fallon, and to find out what his average day looked like. Recent events have unfolded and Fallon has since resigned from his post. But at the time of interviewing, he was still without much dirt on his name and still in power.

So we’ve gone ahead anyway, to show you a little insight into the life of a prominent politician, days before his career came tumbling down.


As we were, then.

Fallon smiled and turned away, cawing out, “Janet, would you be so kind as to make myself and these Right Honourable gentlemen some tea? Oh, and don’t add any sugar for me, I’m sweet enough. Isn’t that right, petal?”

The woman we assumed to be Janet awkwardly smiled and shrank away.

Fallon, a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath, no less, turned back to us. “I do love my tea, gents, a good old British icon much like that dear, fine lady sitting behind you.”

Not wanting to fall under the lock of Thatcher’s eye once again, we didn’t swivel to check. Instead, we remarked that tea came from China.

Sir Michael Fallon spat.

“Don’t talk to me about such places, please, it’s far too early in the morning. And besides, the topic of China in particular causes me great distress. *Sighing* If only we’d fully colonised her. Now she’s a terrifying Communist superpower that I tell the Daily Mail will blow us all up one day.”

Sir Michael Fallon blew a kiss to Queen Victoria. Needless to say, she didn’t reciprocate.

And then came the tea.

“Ah, Janet! You superstar, you! Go on, give us a smile.”

Janet grimaced. We felt extremely uncomfortable, even more so than the hand on the knee situation with Fallon’s female icons keeping watch. It was that bad.

“There’s a good girl.”

A little bit of sick threatened to shoot up our throats.

The Right Honourable Sir Michael Fallon KCB MP then proceeded to pour us our respective British cuppas of Chinese tea. He passed about tiny, little, fine-bone China thimbles of the stuff and commented that he did so love pretending to be in an Enid Blyton story. But then we were interrupted.

A jingly rendition of ‘God Save The Queen’ rang out, about one in every three notes being excluded.

“Excuse me, chaps, that must be the old mobile telephone.”

Fallon left the room and we could only make out snippets of conversation.

“She said what?… Her knee? Nonsense, I’d never… Well… Lovely actually… Okay, thanks for the heads up, Geoffrey.”

When he returned, he seemed a little shaken and slightly red-faced. “Come on, gents, let us ride to Parliament, I have some work to do.”

And so we set off. From Fallon’s country home in Kent to the Palace of Westminster. Pure class.

We clambered into a blacked out Jaguar where a man with a little cap and suit awaited us in the driver’s seat.

Music was on. ASAP Rocky’s ‘F**kin’ Problems’ was the choice for the day and Sir Michael bobbed his head and mouthed along. He too, apparently, had a problem.

We thought we’d get to know the man a little better during the journey. It was, of course, a mistake.

“Well, I come from a rough ‘n’ ready sort of background. Yeah, I’ve experienced hardship, I won’t lie. Most of the chaps where I work, you see, were educated at Eton and then Oxbridge. That’s not right and it’s certainly not me. No, Christ, I’m relatively deprived compared to them. I represent the people, the everyday man. I had to struggle through Epsom and St Andrews instead. Quite ghastly.”

“People say the whole titles stuff is stupid, outdated and elitist. They say the official name ‘The Right Honourable Sir Michael Fallon KCB MP’ is too long and makes me sound like a bit of a nob. I disagree, it adds authority. A bit like corporal punishment. I don’t like weakness, chaps. It’s why I voted to bomb Syria.”

“But, anyway, we’re here now. The glorious Houses of Parliament. I just love its subtlety and understatement, you know? But fellas I can’t let you in, not today I’m afraid. There’s been a few problems and events that I’m going to have to deal with in private. I am sorry. Good day.”

We all got out of the car and The Right Honourable Sir Michael Fallon KCB MP walked off. As he did so, he arched his neck, turned his head and widened his eyes. “Phwar, yes,” he grunted. A woman in a pencil skirt had walked past.

“Righto, sweet cheeks!”

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