Mr Mingin by David Walliams

fae the waws. The tinsel roond the frames didnae dae muckle tae cheer up their crabbit auld coupons. Aw o a sudden, the double doors flew open and a herd o men in suits chairged towards them.
    “Guid efternoon, Mr Minger!” said the Prime Meenister. Ye could tell he wis the boass as he wis walkin at the heid o the herd.
    “It’s jist Mingin, Prime Meenister,” correctit yin o his advisors.
    “Hoo it’s gaun, pal?” said the Prime Meenister, tryin tae tone doon his poashness. He offered oot his perjinkly manicured and moisturised wee haun for Mr Mingin tae shak. The tink offered his ain roch muckle clarty haun and, lookin at it, the Prime Meenister wheeched his back, and gied his new best freend a freendly punch in the shooder insteid. He then keeked at his knuckles and noticed they had some clart on them.
    “Weet wipe” he demandit. “Noo!”

    A man at the back o the herd hurriedly come up wi a weet wipe and it was passed forrit tae the Prime Meenister. He quickly dichted his haun wi it afore flingin it ower his shooder for the man at the back tae catch.
    “Pleased tae meet ye tae, Mr Prime Meenister,” said Mr Mingin, no verra pleased at aw.
    “Caw me Dave,” said the Prime Meenister. “Jings, he reeks like a cludgie,” he whuspered tae yin o his advisors.
    Mr Mingin looked at Chloe, hurt, but the Prime Meenister didnae notice. “Sae, ye were a muckle big hit on Question Time , ma hameless freend,” he continued. “Whit a lauch it wis. Ha ha ha!” He dichted awa a non-existent tear o lauchter fae his ee. “I think we could use ye.”
    “ Use him?” spiered Chloe suspeeciously.
    “Aye, aye. It’s nae secret it’s no lookin braw for me in the election. Ma approval ratin wi the public richt noo is …”
    Yin o the herd hastily opened a folder and there wis a lang pause as he wheeched through pages and pages o information.
    “No verra guid.”
    “No verra guid. Richt. Thanks , Perkins,” said the Prime Meenister sarcastically.
    “It’s Broonlaw.”
    “Whitever.” The Prime Meenister turnt back tae Mr Mingin. “I think if we got you, a real life tink, tae tak ower fae Mrs Ploom as candidate it could be brilliant. It’s faur ower late tae bring in onybody else noo, and you wid be the ideal lastmeenit replacement. Ye’re jist sae funny . I mean, tae lauch at , no really wi.”
    “Excuse me?” said Chloe, feelin gey protective o her freend noo.
    The Prime Meenister jist dinghied her. “It’s genius! It really is. If you jined the pairty it wid trick the public intae thinkin we cared aboot the hameless! Mibbe yin day I could even mak you Meenister for Soap-Joukers.”
    “Soap-Joukers?” said Mr Mingin.
    “Aye, ye ken, the hameless.”
    “Richt,” said Mr Mingin. “And as Meenister for the Hameless, I wid be able tae help ither hameless folk?”
    “Weel, naw,” said the Prime Meenister. “It widnae mean onythin, jist mak me look like a freendly gadgie that loves tinks. Weel, whit dae ye say, Mr Manky Ming?”
    Mr Mingin looked awfie ill at ease. “I dinnae … I mean … I’m no sure—”
    “Are ye kiddin me on?” lauched the Prime Meenister. “Ye’re a tink! Ye cannae hae onythin better tae dae!”
    The suitit herd lauched tae. Suddently Chloe had a flashback tae the schuil. The Prime Meenister and his aides were cairryin on exactly like the gang o mean lassies in her year. Aye faikin aboot for words, Mr Mingin looked ower tae her for help.
    “Prime Meenister …?” said Chloe.
    “Aye?” he answered wi an expectant smile.
    “Ye can stick it up yer big fat bahookie!”
    “Ye taen the words richt oot o ma mooth, lass!” keckled Mr Mingin. “Guidbye, Prime Meenister, and Merry Christmas tae ye aw!”

22
Lang Lion Days
    Chloe and Mr Mingin didnae get a hurl hame on the helicopter. They werenae invitit. They had tae tak the bus insteid.
    As it wis Christmas Eve, the bus wis stappit fu wi folk and ye couldnae see maist o them unner the moontains o pokes fu o shoappin.