My people
Phelan Trowel stared into the mirror practising his smile.   White teeth flashed accentuating his tan, but hey, was his tan a tad too deep?  Was it verging on orange?  His heavily Bo-toxed forehead tried to frown, then he remembered a certain President and relaxed, if it was good enough for him….. He ran his fingers though his hair to maintain its usual boyish style.  This time he did manage to frown, perhaps it was time to ditch boyish and go for distinguished?  Distinguished was good.  He would think about it.  He turned away from the mirror and left his bedroom.
                It was when he was passing his daughter’s room that he heard it.  A muffled snorting and grunting, pig-like, but there were no swine in his house surely!   Then, the penny dropped, as did his smile.   His precious was crying again.  Something was wrong.  Had someone upset her?  If so, they would pay for it.  Steel replaced the twinkle in his eye.
                ‘Princess!  Hey, what’s up Babe?’
                His daughter was a sodden mass in the centre of her queen-sized bed, her swollen face almost the same colour as the raspberry silk of her duvet.  She didn’t answer but a fresh onslaught of tears deepened his concern.  Phelan’s feet ploughed through the oyster coloured carpet as he trekked towards her.
                ‘C’mon honey.  Don’t cry.  It can’t be that bad.  And if it is, you know your old…’ his voiced faltered at this point but he pulled himself together….’Dad will fix it.’
                Wordlessly, his daughter thrust several damp sheets of paper towards him.  He took a quick look.  She went to a good school, the best.  What the hell did he pay these people for?
                ‘Hey, not to worry babe.  There’s no need to stress. It’s not the end of the world.’
                ‘But I’m so stupid Daddy.  I’ll never get a job.’
                ‘Stupid, doopid.  Does it matter babe?  So, you don’t know stuff!  Does that matter when we got Google?  And as for getting a job – I never passed no exams and look what I got.’ 
                Phelan circled his arms, embracing his house in Kensington, the villa in the Dordogne, the yacht, various high-end cars and …. his arms drooped – the list was endless.
                ‘I tell you babe you don’t need smarts.  Smarts weigh you down.  People with smarts are forever thinking deep thoughts about stuff.   It stops ‘em enjoying life.  Anyway, you don’t need a job.  You got me!’
                ‘But I want to do something worthwhile.’
                ‘Sure you do honey.  And you will.  Just let me think.’   Behind Phelan’s starched face his brain whirred until...….  ‘I’ve got it Babe!  You are going into politics.  You are going to be our next leader of the western world!’
                ‘But Daddy…’
                Phelan ignored her stricken squeak.
                ‘Listen kid. You are gonna milk the teenage vote.  There’s masses of ‘em out there who’ve never voted – and for a reason, they don’t feel included.  They’re are sick of being lectured by dames in frumpy suits who don’t know, or care, what makes ‘em tick.  But you, on the other hand, are on their wavelength.   Same age, same interests - boys, sand, sea, sun and sex, you know….’  he flapped his hand.  ‘Now let’s see, how we gonna play this’.
                Phelan started striding around the room punching the air every time a new idea occurred.
‘Firstly, you’ve gotta get yourself known.  You gotta win a talent show.  I can help you there.’
                ‘But Daddy, I don’t have any talent.’
                ‘Sure you do.  You can sing, can’t you?  In the bathroom every morning?  Anyway, nobody need hear you.  Just stand there in a glittery dress, open your mouth and the band will drown you out.’  For the first time, he looked at his daughter with a critical eye.  He winced.  She’d need work done but his people were up to it.
                ‘Then, when you’ve won you gotta keep yourself in the public eye.  Tweet a lot.  Spend most of your life on Facebook, Snapchat or whatever,’ he flapped his hand again. ‘Visit trendy clubs – go on ‘Love Island’, invent your own look - something with street cred, something that looks cheap and nasty but isn’t.  Sponsor a good cause - a poor kid with cancer should do it’.   Then announce you’re standing for whatever party floats your boat.  Better yet, invent your own party.  Of, course you’ll have to have policies.  Stuff that appeals to kids.  Free tats for sixteen-year olds for example. - my people can probably help you there – I have loads of teenagers working for me.  Once they cotton on the kids will take the idea and run with it, trust me.  All you have to do babe is whatever they suggest and you’ll go down a storm.’
                He bent down and kissed the tip of her jelly-bean nose.  ‘You’ll make your Dad so proud honey’bun.   The name of Trowel will go down in history, never to be forgotten.’
                Straightening up, he strode towards the window and drew back the drapes.  With a flourish the morning sun marched into the room saturating the cowering girl with its relentless glare.
                ‘And I, for one,’ crowed Phelan ‘will be proud to welcome our new teenage overlords.’
He flashed his smile again and defeated, the sun sulked under a cloud.