Written by Jenny Grene

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

image for The Adventures of Sherlock Cameron

In the year of 1989 I took my Doctor of Social Anthropology at the University of Cambridge and proceeded to travel around the world taking further education. Throughout this time I am told my political beliefs changed considerably, although if I am honest I would be hard pressed to recall this myself.

Upon my return to England I became leader of a political party, and I spent a short time introducing such flamboyant policies as I could, little thinking about what their consequences might be, in the hope that I might win the respect of the more liberal middle classes. This profited me little, however, and I was faced with the choice of forcing another election or siding with one party and making complete alterations to my style of politics.

No sooner had I reached this unhappy conclusion than I bumped into an old friend of mine, who fortuitously knew a man looking for someone to go halves with him on the government of England and Great Britain.

"By Jove!" I cried; "but this sounds perfect! If he needs a partner to agree with the vast majority of his decisions, I am the very man for it!"

My companion looked at me strangely. "You don't know Sherlock Cameron yet," he said. "You might not care for him as a constant companion."

I, however, saw little to bemoan and much to rejoice in the situation presented to me, and demanded to meet with Cameron. My companion, although initially reluctant, understood my desire to be settled within the government to an immediate effect, and took me to an elite gentleman's club with the city itself, where an man, ordinary-looking to the extreme, was polishing a bicycle helmet.

"Mr Nick Watson, Mr Sherlock Cameron," said my companion, introducing us.

"How are you," he said. "You have just returned from Afghanistan, I perceive."

"No," I said in astonishment, "Belgium."

Sherlock Cameron seemed not to hear this; indeed, he was inclined to change the subject. "I have had my eye on a coalition government and shared lodgings at a house in Downing Street," he said, "which would suit us down to the ground. How do you mind the smell of tobacco?"

I replied that I minded it not at all; indeed, were I to be alone on a deserted island with a choice of luxuries, cigarettes would be that luxury.

"That's wonderful," he said. "Let me see - what are my other shortcomings. I have a great deal of old school friends, who I must have around me at all times. I have a few odd habits of policy, which you'll notice from time to time. But I'm sure you'll find that there is only a cigarette paper separating our politics."

I laughed at this. "Well, I think you'll find me a bit more progressive in my politics," I said. "But a position as Deputy Prime Minister would suit me very well indeed, and I fear this is my only option."

"Well, that is good enough for me," replied Cameron. "Call for me here at noon tomorrow and we'll go and settle everything."

We met on the next day, and after I had inspected our new lodgings at 10B Downing Street, I was extremely pleased. So excellent were the rooms and governmental position, and so moderate did the terms seem which divided us, that the bargain was concluded on the spot. The very next evening Cameron and I viewed the Queen, and requested the permission to form a coalition government, which was granted to us immediately.

Cameron was certainly not a difficult man to work with politically. Occasionally our politics differed, and when such an occasion arose I would attempt to argue my point. Upon the commencement of such arguments, he would hold his violin in his lap and play a series of chord. This were executed with such lack of musicality that I would be forced to leave the building, thereby giving Cameron the opportunity to push his policies forward.

The main trouble, I was soon to find out, lay in his insistence on amateurish detecting, which was invariably undertaken clumsily and with little result. I soon discovered, in our later adventures, that Cameron's style of detecting worked with only one man: his bumbling nemesis, Boris Moriarty...

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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