Chapter Twenty-OneThe press were vicious. Toby Simpson had never known it so bad. It was as if they’d totally lost control or, even worse, had been possessed. ‘Tree-hugging Alien describes primitive society while sycophantic President grovels’. Then there was the usual card-carrying anti-American rubbish. Were these the people who informed us in their daily columns? Their blatant arrogance was insufferable.
Toby was about to vent his ire on the Downing Street press office when the phone rang.
‘Toby, turn to Breakfast Time.’ At once the phone went dead. Toby pressed the remote and there was the PM, looking anything but pleased, being addressed by the familiar self-satisfied icon.
‘Prime Minster, this morning’s press are almost unanimous in condemning yesterday’s rather pathetic performan
