As the Ulster Unionist election campaign begins to falter, Newton Emerson eavesdrops on an emergency party meeting...
"For the love of God David, how could you trust people like that?"
Trimble stared wearily at the ceiling while he waited for the rant to finish.
"You just went off and did a deal with them behind our backs and then expected us to go along with it!" shouted somebody else.
This was getting out of control - there was nothing else for it, he was going to have to apologise. "OK, OK," he said, doing his best to sound contrite. "I'm really sorry about the advertising campaign."
Considering how little ever changed in Northern Ireland politics it could still be wildly unpredictable, mused Trimble, as disgruntled muttering filled the committee room. Of all the disasters he was expecting before the election, a row over posters wasn't one of them.
He cast his eye across the offended samples laid out on the desk before him. Damn, what had he told the agency again? "The message is that Ulster Unionists are British, always have been, always will be. And keep in simple." So there it was: "Ulster Unionists, Simply British." Perhaps he should have given them more to work with.
"£60,000!" wailed Sir Reg Empey clattering away at his big-button calculator. "We could have hired five press officers for that!"
Then there was sudden silence as John Taylor cleared his throats. "Could you tell us, Mr Trimble, what happened to the word 'Party'?"
Trimble took a fortifying sip of Ulster Spring Water and met his level gaze. "The agency said the word 'Party' wouldn't appeal to young people," he explained calmly, although now he'd said it out loud something about it didn't sound quite right.
Lady Sylvia Hermon raised her hand for permission to speak and after a quick vote, permission was granted. "I don't understand these pictures," she said. "A Mini? Fish and chips? How does that create a positive image?" The men sighed - once again Lady Sylvia would have to be updated on the lifestyle of the working classes and that always upset her.
"Those are things that ordinary British people identify with," explained Trimble patiently.
"Well I know that," said Lady Sylvia sweetly. "But Minis are made in Germany, the British fishing industry has been closed down by Brussels, and the Department of Health wants to ban chips."
In the corner, beneath the antique mahogany Carson Memorial Coffee Table, Jeffrey Donaldson began to snigger.
"You know, the most popular British dish these days is actually curry," declared Michael McGimpsey, bravely attempting to lighten the mood.
"Is that a Muslim thing?" asked one of the Craigavon Council delegation suspiciously.
"No, no - most Indians are Hindus," McGimpsey reassured them, although from the look on their faces that hadn't reassured them at all.
"India has no relevance to Northern Ireland!" barked back one of the councillors, which Trimble had to admit was true enough. Partitioned, divided, paranoid and violent, Northern Ireland was really much more like Pakistan. Did they eat curry there too, he wondered?
"What I want to know is where's the Union Jack?" interrupted David Burnside sharply. "Flag-waving isn't very British you know," explained Trimble to a sea of uncomprehending faces.
"These posters are very plain as well," chipped in Lady Sylvia. "Couldn't they have had a nice border?"
"I told them the border didn't matter," replied Trimble, realising his mistake too late. In fact, now he realised the real mistake behind the whole campaign. For while at one level being British was simple - all you needed was a passport, or a birth certificate, or just the belief that you were British - that meant that at another level it was very complicated indeed.
Unionists had no clearly-marked path to national purity, no traditional route to unquestionable identity. They could worship any god, play any sport, eat any food, dance with or without using their arms, subscribe to any version of history - and still be no less yet also no more British than anyone else. They didn't even have a made-up language they could pretend to speak, although the Ulster-Scots Agency was working on that one.
Really, the only simple truth about being British was that there simply wasn't very much you could say about it beyond "Everyone welcome" and for some reason, in this particular part of the Kingdom, that was the one thing people simply couldn't bring themselves to say. "Anyway," murmured Sir John Gorman, clearly sensing it was time to change the subject. "How's it going with the IRA?"
"Oh that," replied Trimble with obvious relief. "I don't think we've any worries there at all . . ."
Newton Emerson is editor of the satirical website portadownnews.com.