Gordon Brown is a self-confessed fan of Ian Rankin and Raymond Chandler. So we asked you to send in excerpts from these authors, with Gordon as a hardbitten Rebus- or Marlowe-type figure dealing with the vicissitudes of being Prime Minister Set by Gavin Ross

Report by Ms de Meaner

Well done. Hon menshes to Barry Baldwin, Alanna Blake, Ian Birchall and Nigel Evans. The winners get £20 each, with the overall top dog getting the extra Tesco vouchers. I mean Bill Greenwell.

The rain in Downing Street came down like a guilty verdict. The front-door cop spat in the gutter, where someone had dropped a Pepsi can. It washed as far as a drain grid before sticking as if it had received a mortal kick in the teeth.

That was me, Gordon Brown, ace politician and economics wizard. At least I was until Phoney Tony painted me into the frame. He had more twists than an anaconda, his wife was as out to lunch as Michael Jackson and his idea of Mr Integrity was Peter Mandelson.

Mandelson. Chugging Krug in Brussels while the world got on my case and I couldn't get on anyone's.

Except maybe one person.

Lifting the phone, I dialled Prudence's number.

Basil Ransome-Davies

It was hot in Baghdad and David five star goddam General of Iraq Petraeus wanted more soldiers. British soldiers. I was talking about intensifying the economic infrastructure but he wasn't listening.

The door opened behind me.

"Who's that," he asked.

"It's my Foreign Secretary."

"What happened to the guy with the shrunken head?"

"He died."

"Uh, well listen, no hard feelings but Tony wrote the cheque for this one before he left the company and all we're doing is asking you to honour it."

He left the room. I glanced over at Miliband, all chiselled jaw and muscle.

"See he changes his mind."

Miliband set that jaw, cracked his knuckles and left the room with the grace of an arab dhow skimming over the Tigris.

Neil Stone

Brown tipped back a double Grouse and looked out the grimy Downing Street windows. Jings, this place. Full of woolly suits: all soda-pop and Irn-Bru. He sloshed another jolt of whisky into his glass, lit his third cigarette, slipped a cassette on. "Give Me Just a Little More Time": the Chairmen of the Board. Motown under a pseudonym. No proper credit. They were playing his tune . . .

He punched buttons on his phone. A sullen voice answered.

"Mervyn? Enough of this shite. I know you've got extras in Special Reserve: I'm calling in favours. I want cuts in interest rates, and a big bung to pensioners, all of them. I'm nationalising supermarkets, now."

Thrombosis in Threadneedle Street: your turn, pal. "Dear Prudence": forget it.

Bill Greenwell

No 4042 A night at the opera

Set by Joy Hosker

So . . . the Royal Opera House is to offer all 2,200 seats for a single performance of Don Giovanni to Sun readers. It's a chance for it to be performed to "an audience of new faces", said Tony Hall, CEO of the ROH, "people who perhaps may not have thought the Royal Opera House was for them, or who felt it was too expensive". We want overheard conversations during the interval in the Crush Bar - and do try to avoid the usual stereotypes.

Max 120 words by 21 August

Post your comment

Please note: you will need to login or register before you can comment on the website