My First Executive Orders

Minutes into my second day as Richard Nixon it became apparent that the country was crying out for a series of measures to solve some of the problems brought about by mismanagement. This is why I’m issuing the following Executive Orders. Not only do they offer you a taste of things to come but they are the kind of governance you voted for. And there’s not a thing here that people who voted for George McGovern would criticise.

All men who work two days a week in Manchester will be elevated to the peerage.

Anybody caught tucking a trouser into a sock will face a £50 fine unless they are in possess of a bicycle. Coincidentally, anybody caught trousering a sock will face a £1000 fine. My administration will be tough on all sock crime.

The word ‘carvery’ is now banned from our roadsides. Call me irrational but I really do dislike the word.

All dancers must apply for official permits to tap.

Bus travel will be made free for all who pass our new cleanliness tests.

Companies that make handsome laptops will be encouraged to donate free machines to handsome bloggers with identity problems.

Richard Stilgoe is to write a new national anthem which will include the word ‘debonair’.

Facelifts are now banned from the BBC.

Clive James will become the new head of the BBC and the license fee will be reduced if you can quote Milton.

Jonathan Ross is to be demoted to caretaker in the BBC canteen but he will be given a new mop worth no less than £17.

Thorntons take note. The word ‘chocolatier’ will now be spelt ‘chocolateer’.

There must be a unified cartridge across all makes and models of inkjet printers.
Road widening schemes are to be scrapped in favour of a new programme of car narrowing.

And in our first wave of forced emigration to the Isle of Wight will be limited to anybody who has ever sang or dance in an advertisement for the Halifax.

Being Richard Nixon

Judy woke me with a prod this morning. I was surprised that the secret service had allowed her to get so close as to do me harm.

‘Richard,’ she snapped, ‘have you been recording our telephone conversations?’

I rolled over, rubbed a hand over my face, and then yawned in a most presidential way.

‘Judy,’ I said, ‘I cannot tell a lie. I’ve been making covert recordings of everything that’s been said in this house.’

Her face felt the effect of gravity. ‘Everything?’

I could see that this was the time for a little reassurance, if not some détente and realpolitik. ‘Calm yourself, Jude. You have to trust me. There will come a time when we’ll need to prove what was said in order to be vindicated by history.’

‘History? What’s all this about history?’ Her cheeks flushed in that way that always reminds me of Kissinger watching West Germany beat the Netherlands in the 1974 World Cup. ‘Why does history need to know everything that I’ve been told in confidence by Cilla Black? You know that she trusts me.’

‘Cilla needn’t worry,’ I assured her as I swung my legs out of bed and aimed my toenails towards my slippers, decorated with the crest of the United States. ‘My tape recordings are safely locked away and will only be placed into the Richard Madeley Library when the time is right.’

The room fell silent for a few moments, as I’m sure the tapes will prove.

‘Richard?’ asked Judy as she watched me dress myself in my new dressing gown.

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course you can. It’s one of the privileges of being my First Lady.’

‘And you won’t be angry?’

‘Me? I’m a model of good temper.’

She bit her lip and then let fly. ‘Why are you pretending to be Richard Nixon?’

‘Pretending? This is no pretence, my love. I’ve decided that if people are going to doubt that I’m really me, then I’m going to be somebody else. Somebody I really admire.’

‘You admire Nixon?’

‘Richard Milhous Nixon brought the Vietnam War to an end. He also negotiated peace with the Chinese and provided the name for Bart Simpson’s best friend.’

She nodded. ‘Admirable,’ she admitted, ‘but didn’t he also sign the orders that banned Cilla from performing on American soil during the 1970s?’

‘And that’s another fact that has been forgotten by history. Doesn’t that just show what happens when there are gaps in the official recordings? When historians look back and wonder why a voice like Cilla’s never conquered the greatest nation, they will have my recordings to thank for your explanation.’

That fact did not bring about the warming of relations that I’d expected. It was like I’d ordered the bombing of Cambodia.

‘You’re not recording this conversation, are you Richard?’ she asked. ‘You’re not actually recording what’s said in our bedroom?’

‘I am,’ I admitted as I walked do the bedroom door. ‘Ever since Monday morning when Stephen Fry came around when you were at snooker and we write the whole house for sound. There’s not a peep that isn’t picked up. There will be no gaps in my recording. People will understand everything about my administration. There will be no secrets about Richard Percival Madeley.’ And with that I gave her my best victory salute, both arms high and twin ‘V’s balanced on the end of my knuckles, before I headed for a presidential breakfast.