Nestled all snug in his bed, his upper set of teeth protruding in a smirk, Rick imperially waved one hand as visions of dictatorship danced in his head. And Mamma in her 'kerchief and I in my cap, had just settled down for a long winter's-

(What the ruddy hell do you think you're doing?

"Sorry Rick, I just got carried away in the moment, you know how it is…"

Well stop it at once; you're making me look stupid. Now get on with it and do it properly, go on. Don't forget to mention how great I am.)

Deep within the realms of sleep, the great Rick smiled a winning smile and waved a regal hand, his mouth moving soundlessly along with the words he spoke to a rapt, adoring crowd.

Listen, from where you are, you can hear their dreams …

"Hear me, hear me, for I am the People's Poet and I come before you, the kids, today to let you know that I am the people and I'm for the people. Listen to my poems, they will stop war and hatred and we can all live together in loving peace that isn't girly at all. I love everyone, even men… but only if they don't touch my bottom."

The crowd that had gathered around him, the crowd that always seemed to be close by, ready to hang onto every word of his latest poem sighed happily and nodded at his brilliance, admiring the pictures his words painted in the air.

He graced their adoring upturned faces with a smile, drawing a small battered notebook from his blazer pocket and leafing through it to find his newest poem, scrawled in black biro.

"Blair

Or are you Blair

Because no one would care

About a poem about Blair

Because you are Blair

Or are you?

Anyway, Gordon Brown's the Prime Minister now so it doesn't even matter."

Coming to the closing line of his newest and possibly finest poem, he nodded to the rapturous applause that greeted its conclusion. And they weren't even clapping because it was over. Brilliant. No one ever even hit him on the head either, life was good.

He descended from his performance platform to walk amongst his disciples, shaking hands, accepting bunches of flowers and kissing comely young maidens on the cheek – all the usual duties of a saviour of the people. A woman came forwards from the crowd, tugging a tousled young boy with a blonde crew cut along behind her; she laid her free hand on Rick's arm and turned her arresting green eyes up to him in a plea for salvation.

"Oh People's Poet, you have help me, my son wants to be a pig when he grows up." She gasped, chest heaving and tears welling just above her mascara-curled lower eyelashes.

"Don't worry, ma'am," Rick boomed in a voice that would make any threat to world peace, even Doctor Octopus, cower in his supervillainous boots with quick grappling hook action. He flashed a winning, charismatic smile at the woman and laid his hands on her son's shoulders, closing his eyes and swaying as the spirit of the people flowed through him causing him to rapidly speak poetry in tongues. After a moment, the boy jumped away with a cry of "Down with the fascists!" and scampered off to blow up a panda (that's a police car, not an endangered bamboo-eating mammal, before you even think of writing in with complaints).

"You've saved my child!" The woman beamed, descending on Rick and practically eating his face off before her husband came and dragged her off, of course apologising profusely to the genius anarchist, as no one would dare insult their knight in badge-covered armour.

As the crowd surged in around him once again, Rick felt himself overcome with the sort of headache that only seems to target women with husbands who are a little too overzealous between the bed linens. Closing his eyes momentarily in a bid to fight of the increasing waves of pain that coursed through his head, he waved off his devotees and stumbled towards his waiting limousine – electrically powered to cut down on carbon emissions of course.

Sinking back against the faux leather seats that still held the mouth-watering aroma of new car and shielding his eyes with one hand, he gave the order for his chauffeur to drive him to his home, home being of course the recently refurbished 10 Downing Street. Being an anarchist, the People's Poet had turfed Gordon Brown out of his Prime Ministerial house and told him to go live amongst the people as he should really consider himself one of them, and then had promptly taken the house as his own. It was the only right thing to do after all, perhaps even merciful.

He must have dozed off because it seemed like in no time at all his passenger door was suddenly being opened, nearly causing him to tumble out the side. His chauffeur caught his arm just in time and with a gentle caution of "Careful there" helped his idol onto steadying feet.

Rick muttered a few pleasantries, gave the man some change and made a break for his home, pleased to notice that his headache had subsided a little. He was greeted by his chirpy and, dare he say it, stunningly attractive blonde secretary, but for perhaps the first time since their working relationship began he did not sidle up to the desk and try to look down her top. Not that he was sexist or anything, he would make the most hardcore of feminists blush at their atrocious views on women in fact, he just liked to check that everything was in good working order to avoid problems later on.

"That's a smashing blouse you're wearing," he muttered instead, glancing up at her as she replaced the phone she had been busily chatting at into its cradle. She smiled and giggled like the perfect secretary she was.

"Mr Poet sir, that was the President of the United States on the line. He's gotten himself into some bother over nuclear armaments and wondered if you could give him some advice, or maybe a soothing poem," she beamed at him, all Barbie lipstick and nipped waistline.

Rick considered this for a moment or two, idly withdrawing his biro from where he kept it behind his ear and chewing upon it, assuming a moody and intellectual look. A close up and soft lighting, maybe even some drifting smoke would suit that brooding look perfectly.

"Just tell him to sell it all off on E-Bay," he suggested at last, feeling his headache starting to creep on in full force and this time bringing its friends Stomach Ulcer and Troublesome Thoughts so that they could have a little party. "I'm going for a lie down."

His secretary inspected his face a little closer, her own crumpling up in concern as she saw that he looked much pastier and sweatier than usual, which just proved how terrible he must have been feeling because he usually looked pasty and sweaty anyway, now he actually looked ill.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? A massage?" She wriggled her fingers with their long red nails provocatively at him, but he simply shook his head and started up the stairs that led to his bedroom.

Laying on his king size bed a few moments later, staring blankly at the ceiling and idly fiddling with his notebook, it dawned on Rick just why he felt so terrible. It was the fawning admiration of his multitudes of fans. How ironic that the thing he had always dreamed of as being his would hurt his heart so to possess. That sounded brilliant… he quickly scribbled it down, smirking to himself, and then returned to looking mournfully roof-ward like the tortured poetic soul he was.

It wasn't having fans that upset him per se; it was the fact that he knew all his fans were fakes. If they really did adore him like they pretended to, then why didn't they hit him with a frying pan when he finished a recitation instead of applauding, or carry out that age old joke of pretending to hate him when they actually thought he was great? Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to drift back to his student days and the popularity he had enjoyed amongst his house mates, sociology class and dare he say, most of Scumbag College and its lecturers. Oh what fun they had all had, them calling him names and giving him the wrong room number when a seminar was on, what mates they had all been, mates as well as admirers.

He was so wrapped up in his pleasant memories that he didn't notice the door open and his blonde secretary slip silently in. In fact, it wasn't until she was on top of him, literally on top of him, the he realised she was there. Startled, he stared up into her eyes then smiled indulgently.

"Come to give me that massage?"

She nodded coyly and within… three and a half minutes it was all over, which was a personal best for Rick. And what a three and half minute wonder he was, no wonder she hadn't been able to resist his masculine yet sensitive charm. He closed his eyes and yawned, feeling more fulfilled than he had in a while, her cool hands resting on his burning cheeks and soothing them.

"Well, thanks for the fun Rick, it's been really amazing. In fact, I'm almost sorry that I have to do this."

There was an ominous tone to the secretary's 'this' that made him open his eyes… and immediately wish he hadn't as he found himself staring straight into the one merciless eye of a gun.

"What? What are you doing?" He croaked in fear, trying to ease back out of range, but the blonde Barbie's knees were resting on his shoulders, trapping him in place.

She rolled her painted eyes and laughed. "Assassinating you of course."

Of course. It happened to all the influential people who did something for The Kids and couldn't be contained by the fascist authorities – Martin Luther King, John Lennon, Colonel Khadafy… At least he died like he loved – quickly. One tightening of the trigger and it was all over for the much beloved People's Poet.