Quite nice, on the whole, that religious chap.

High up, apparently. (Could even be the boss;

‘Numéro Uno’, said a bodyguard.)

He gave me forty minutes;

Has some good ideas.

 

Drinks shandy with lunch

(‘Must keep a clear head’).

Unsurprising views on midweek sex (he is sceptical)

And Elvis impersonators (better in the North).

Unlike his autobiography,

Entitled ‘Who’s that up there?’

By his own admission, it’s heading South;

Already on discount in supermarkets.

‘Sixty per cent is a bit much,’ he spluttered,

‘After just two weeks.’

 

Towards the end, I noticed

The desperate, the destitute, in their thousands,

Pressing kisses against the reinforced glass.

 

‘Call my secretary,’ he barked,

As he swept out with his entourage.

 

You can’t blame him,

He’s only human.

 

As I left, I saw, on the far side of the room,

A young man, dancing.

You can’t blame him either.