It was a normal day by the shore in Aberdeen. The sun wasn't shining but it wasn't raining either. My friends and I were chilling - just shooting the breeze, so to speak.
But then, we got wind of a developing situation (that's how we usually get our news). Our arch enemy, a man whose name I cannot bring myself to utter (hint: the first three letters of his name rhyme with 'Con'), was crossing the pond to visit his golf course. In other words, President Flotsam was going to Jetsam across the pond.
We hoped that it was just a rumour but alas, it was true. The day arrived and we saw him in the distance. We were paralysed with fear. We'd heard that he had once queried whether a hurricane could be stopped by a nuke. None of us were taking the risk. The only blades that moved were those of the tall grass nearby.
However, when I could bring myself to cast a cursory glance at our Don Quixote on steroids, he was just a hunched over old man with a silly hat on his head. Nevertheless, we did not move our blades, for fear of drawing attention to ourselves. Apparently, his hatred for us is because we kill birds and make annoying sounds. (He's a good one to talk).
Unfortunately, keeping still was a losing battle. While we could easily handle the strong North winds, we were unable to withstand the hot air that emanated every time President Flotsam opened his mouth to speak. Despite our best efforts, our blades started to move reluctantly, in a desperate attempt to disperse the hot air and the accompanying odour (which leads me to suspect that the hot air was not just emanating from his mouth).
Fortunately for us, he was distracted by the people with cameras and note pads, shouting questions at him - the name Epstein seemed to come up quite a lot (not quite sure why they were bringing up The Beatles' manager after all this time). But then again, maybe they were not asking about that Epstein because the name seemed to trigger him so much, that a convoy of golf carts were summoned and they drove away to the accompaniment of Memories from the musical Cats. Apparently his favourite musical is 'Cats', yet he claims to hate us because we kill birds.
As he drove away, our blades, in unison, hummed 'The Windmills of Your Mind'. How we howled with laughter for the rest of the evening (some might've called it our Stormy revenge.)
We saw him on two occasions after that. One was in the evening when he appeared at the entrance of his resort, flanked by the Prime Minister of the UK, Keir Starmer on one side and his wife on the other. (Keir Starmer's wife, not Mrs Flotsam).
Poor Mrs Starmer looked like a wax work from Madame Tussauds. She stood stock still and expressionless. But then again, she was standing next to him, so she could well have been holding her breath.
The last time we saw him, he was standing in front of a red ribbon, his two sons on either side of him. Interesting looking men. The bearded one looked like he had a bladeless wind turbine indelicately rammed up his spine (apologies to my fellow wind turbines for that analogy) and the other son looked like he'd been blessed with a double set of teeth (or cursed with an extra small mouth.) Either way, they looked like the perfect casting for a reboot of Dumb and Dumber. Dumbest then proceeded to cut the red ribbon and once again opened his mouth to speak. Cue for our blades to start spinning furiously.
Finally, we got wind that he was back in his country. We really would be useless without our friend the wind.
With him gone, things could return to normal again. Can't say the same for his country. But then again, they are a democracy and they chose him (again).
They could have chosen an intelligent, qualified woman but they chose a dumb, unqualified man. As they say in his country, Go figure.
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