On Your Bike: The infernal appointment of Norman Tebbit
With profound apologies to the late great Terry Pratchett
The Tetley's TL:DR Gist of this
In a satirical afterlife, Norman Tebbit dies and is escorted to Hell by Death, who casually reminds him he shouldn't complain as he nearly got him back in Brighton in 1984. Tebbit protests his innocence, claiming he merely upheld "traditional British values." Death dryly replies that he’ll fit in fine with the rest of the imperialists: Churchill, Rhodes, Cromwell, the whole gang.
Ann Widdecombe shows up uninvited (as usual), still not dead but deeply involved in Hell’s admin. The Devil points out she’s practically a regular. Tebbit tries to wheel and deal, but Hell doesn’t do favours or consultants. The lift to damnation opens, and Tebbit, outraged, indignant, and deeply Tory, steps into his eternal punishment, where even Cromwell is having a bad millennium.
Death revs his motorbike and vanishes into the smoke.
On the weekend of the 2025 Durham Miners Gala: Dedicated to the ones who stayed on their bikes, even when the bastards shut the pits.
The Right Honourable Lord Tebbit of Chingford was dead.
This came as a surprise to absolutely nobody except, somewhat tragically, Lord Tebbit himself.
He had always assumed that Death was for other people, lazy people, poor people, people with beards. Not industrious, stiff-backed men who had made a career out of kicking trade unionists and metaphorically assaulting anyone who didn’t have the good sense to own at least two homes and vote Conservative while sneering. Still, there he was. Or rather, there he wasn’t, as the corpse was slumped over a copy of the Daily Telegraph, open at the editorial page and stiff with disapproval. The soul, meanwhile, stood blinking on a pavement that smelled faintly of coal smoke and righteous indignation. A tall figure in a black robe stood nearby, skeletal fingers wrapped around a scythe and a small leather-bound clipboard.
AH.
DEATH LOOKED UP.
NORMAN BERESFORD TEBBIT. LORD OF CHINGFORD. 1931 TO 2025. NO FORWARDING ADDRESS...
He paused.
...YOUR LUGGAGE HAS BEEN SENT AHEAD.
Tebbit straightened, or at least his spectral spine attempted to. “Are you with the Home Office?”
NOT EXACTLY. DEATH PAUSED. THOUGH I DO ENJOY PAPERWORK.
“I suppose this is Heaven?” said Tebbit suspiciously, peering into the fog. “Bit foggy. A bit well foreign, frankly.”
NO. THIS IS THE BIT BEFORE THE BIT. THE WAITING ROOM, AS IT WERE. THE NETHERLANDS OF COSMIC ADMINISTRATION.
DEATH PRODUCED A TINY HOURGLASS FROM WITHIN HIS ROBES. THE SAND HAD SETTLED. THE BRASS WAS POLISHED TO A MIRROR SHEEN.
YOURS RAN OUT AT 08:47 THIS MORNING, WHILE YOU WERE WRITING A LETTER TO THE TIMES ABOUT HOW SOCIALISM GIVES YOU IRRITABLE BOWEL SYNDROME.
“Bloody nonsense,” Tebbit muttered. “I was in perfect health.”
YOU CHOKED ON A MACADAMIA NUT.
“Oh.”
IRONICALLY, IT WAS FAIR-TRADE.
Death gestured, and a large black motorbike appeared beside him, idling with a growl that suggested it had eaten other motorbikes and hadn’t regretted it.
“You’re taking me up there on that?” Tebbit sniffed. “I told people to get on their bikes, not consort with bloody mods.”
THIS ONE’S NOT A VESPA - IT'S A HARLEY - AND YOU’RE NOT GOING 'UP'.
The fog parted. A lift descended from somewhere beneath reality itself, painted in peeling red gloss and bearing a brass plaque that read:
TO THE INFERNAL REGIONS: ALL WELCOME (NO JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES)
Tebbit glanced at it, then at the bike, then at Death.
“I demand to speak to someone in charge.”
YOU’RE WELCOME TO. THEY’VE BEEN WAITING.
DEATH CLIMBED ABOARD AND HELD OUT A BONY HAND.
SHALL WE?
“Is this because of the miners?” Tebbit asked, a bit sharply.
WELL. THAT, AND THE 'ON YOUR BIKE' SPEECH. ALSO THE BIT WHERE YOU DEFENDED PINOCHET. AND THE FLAT TAX IDEA. AND CLAUSE 28 OF COURSE, AND THE CRICKET TEST AND THE TIME YOU SAID THE NHS WAS A 'SOCIALIST FAILURE'...
“...There was context!” Pleased Tebbit.
YES. HELL HAS LOTS OF CONTEXT. MOST OF IT'S ON FIRE.
With a tremendous VRAAAAAAAAAM, the motorbike roared into the air and plunged downward, leaving behind only the faint smell of petrol, brimstone, and hypocrisy.
Deep in the Third Circle of Hell, just past the Bureaucratic Whirlpool and two doors down from the room where Nigel Farage was eternally locked in an EU Parliament committee hearing, a fire crackled, brimstone bubbled, and the new Guest was being discussed.
A red carpet had been laid out, though it was more of a river, and more of blood, and more teeming with regretful journalists. Satan, wearing a Savile Row suit tailored from human ambition, turned to his deputy with a grin that split several dimensions.
The Devil lounged on a baroque chaise-longue carved from the fossilised manifestos of failed Tory leadership candidates, swirling a glass of something that looked like claret and smelled of austerity. He looked up as the door burst open in a clap of misplaced moral certainty.
“Lucifer!” barked a voice like a cracked church bell. “Where is he?”
It was Ann Widdecombe. Or at least, a very good likeness, the one that slipped between etheral plains like melted butter on a mouldy crumpet. She wore sensible shoes, a frown designed for cowing bishops, and a cardigan knitted from 100% disapproval. The Devil raised an eyebrow.
“Ann. You're back... Again.”
“I am not ‘back’,” she snapped. “I am simply visiting. Spiritually. Temporarily. I’m still very much alive.”
Lucifer leaned forward.
“Yes, and yet you have an unbroken attendance record at our planning meetings. In fact...” he clicked his fingers and a small imp wafted over holding a clipboard “...you’ve been ‘popping down’ since the Hague years. Frankly, the team assumed you’d taken early damnation.”
“I was on a fact-finding mission!” she hissed. “The afterlife must be run with discipline.”
“Of course,” said Satan smoothly. “That's why we gave you the Room of Eternal Abstinence and Letting Other People Have Fun. You decorated it, Ann.”
She harrumphed and sat, which is to say she lowered herself slowly while radiating moral superiority like a gas leak.
“So, Norman’s on his way,” she said at last. “I trust he’s been allocated a place of... comfort.”
Lucifer smirked. “Oh yes. We’ve given him a bespoke eternity. We've given him a pink room, unlimited access to gay porn, and we've surrounded him with Scousers, feminists, and Guardian readers. The television only plays Ken Loach. And he has to clap along”.
Widdecombe winced. “Cruelty.”
“You’d know.”
“Norman was a good man,” she said, nostrils flaring. “Firm. Loyal. Believed in family, monarchy and punishing the poor. A true Conservative.”
The Devil steepled his fingers. “Indeed. So naturally, he’s earned the Deluxe Torment Package. Thatcher’s in the next circle, by the way. Keeps sending up complaints. Wants her own department.”
He paused, narrowing his eyes at her: “You do know this is where you’ll end up, yes?”
“Nonsense,” she sniffed. “I’ve lived a life of moral principle.”
“Yes,” Lucifer said. “So did Mother Theresa, but she's down here thining about what she did for eternity”
He leaned back and raised his glass. “To your health. Such as it is. Though honestly, Ann, it might be more efficient if you just booked a room.”
She stood, bristling with injured righteousness.
“When my time comes, I shall face it with dignity.”
“Excellent!” the Devil said cheerily. “Just don’t be surprised if you find your soul’s already unpacked”
Hell was preparing. The demons had dusted off the extra-hot coals, polished the Thatcher Memorial Gargoyles (only slightly less terrifying than the real thing), and brought out the Iron Maiden marked PRIVATE – RESERVED FOR THE ARISTOCRACY.
“Well then” he said, clapping his hands. “Another of Maggie’s little helpers joins the club.”
“Shall I prepare the special suite?” A demon interjected
“Yes” the Devil purred. “The one with infinite Question Time reruns and a back-to-back schedule of Jeremy Corbyn being right about everything. And make sure his neighbours are Scargill and Ken Livingstone.”
Back at the lift, which was less 'Otis' and more 'Faustian Mechanism Mk IV,' the walls were slick with a sort of bureaucratic ichor and posters warned passengers that "Complaints Will Be Processed in Chronological Eternity."
As it plummeted through the bowels of metaphysics, Lord Tebbit finally broke.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, you know. I was just trying to uphold traditional British values!”
Death didn’t look at him. He stared through the elevator doors, which now glowed red and pulsed slightly, as if bracing for impact.
YES, said Death, peering ahead through the flames.
AND NOW YOU’LL BE MEETING ALL THE TRADITIONAL BRITISH IMPERIALISTS. YOU’LL GET ON SPLENDIDLY.
Tebbit stiffened. “Imperialists?”
OH YES. THE WHOLE LOT. CHURCHILL’S STILL SHOUTING AT A BENGALI SCHOLAR. CECIL RHODES RUNS THE CANTEEN. KITCHENER KEEPS TRYING TO MOBILISE THE DEMONS.
He paused, then added,
I’D PRACTICE YOUR SMALL TALK ON CROMWELL. HE’S BEEN RATHER TETCHY SINCE THE CIVIL WAR.
The lift doors opened with a hiss that sounded suspiciously like 'privatisation'.
Beyond them: fire, darkness, the faint sound of Vera Lynn being played sarcastically on steel drums.
Lord Tebbit stepped forward, spine ramrod straight, moustache quivering with outrage. The eternal civil servant.
Hell’s reception chamber was a tasteful blend of Edwardian gentlemen’s club and abattoir. Leather chairs (from actual sinners), mahogany panels (harvested from deforestation lobbyists), and a faint scent of port, brimstone, and entitlement.
At its centre, Lord Norman Tebbit: still dressed in his ghostly three-piece pinstripe, paced with the precision of a man rehearsing a speech to the Young Conservatives that involved the words 'discipline' 'tradition' and 'bring back National Service'
"Now look" he said, turning to the Devil, who was pouring himself a flaming sambuca, “I’m not saying I didn’t make the odd tough decision, tax breaks for landlords, bashing the unions, that business with the miners and the 'get on your bike' comment, but I was a public servant. I did it for Queen and Country!”
The Devil raised an eyebrow.
“Norman, dear boy” he purred, “You personally referred to striking workers as the enemy within. You once suggested that single mothers were responsible for the collapse of Western civilisation. And you defended Pinochet.”
Tebbit straightened. “He ran a tight ship.”
“Yes” said Satan. “So do we”
Tebbit sat heavily, which is to say, he sank into the chair like a man being lowered into a pit full of ethical dilemmas.
“There must be some sort of appeal,” he muttered. “A tribunal. A committee, at least.”
Lucifer leaned in.
“Oh, we don’t do appeals. This is Hell, Norman. It runs on strict hierarchical principle. You’d love it, apart from the weeping, the fire, and the smell of moral failure”
Just then, the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Not cold exactly, more like the feeling of a tax audit, or the silence in a Tory press office when the Prime Minister accidentally tells the truth. A tall figure appeared in the corner, robe billowing slightly, scythe resting lazily across one shoulder.
HELLO AGAIN, NORMAN.
Tebbit flinched.“Oh God, you again.”
NO, JUST ME. THOUGH HE’S IN THE BUILDING TODAY.
DEATH approached and looked down at Tebbit with what, if his face had allowed it, might’ve been a wry smile.
YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL, REALLY. YOU GOT FORTY MORE YEARS DOWN THERE. I NEARLY GOT YOU AT BRIGHTON.
Tebbit paled, or would have, had he not already been technically transparent.“That bomb?”
YES. I WAS POLISHING THE SCYTHE WHEN THE CEILING CAME DOWN. MISSED YOU BY THAT MUCH.
Death held up a skeletal thumb and forefinger, a hair's width apart.
YOU SLIPPED THROUGH THE CRACKS. QUITE LITERALLY.
“Bloody IRA,” muttered Tebbit.
“Careful” said Lucifer, smirking. “They’ve got a five-a-side team down here now. Very competitive, they're looking for a new goalie since Bobby Sands took over the staff canteen”
Tebbit leaned forward, suddenly conspiratorial.
“Listen. I still have influence. Connections. There are people upstairs who’d vouch for me. Lords. Captains of industry. I was loyal to Thatcher!”
DEATH tilted his skull.
AND NOW YOU’LL BE REWARDED. SHE’S TWO FLOORS DOWN. THEY’RE RUNNING A POWER COUPLES’ BOOK CLUB.
“Perhaps a deal?” Tebbit suggested. “Advisory capacity. Consultant. I’ve run departments, sat on boards, crushed dreams with remarkable efficiency.”
Lucifer lit a cigar made from rolled-up PPE contracts and exhaled with a hiss.
“Oh, Norman. We don’t need consultants. We breed them”
At this, the door burst open, and in stomped Ann Widdecombe, looking like an angry vicar who’d caught a parishioner touching themselves during Songs of Praise.
“I’ve reviewed his file,” she snapped, waving a flaming clipboard. “Frankly, I’m shocked.”
“You’re always shocked, Ann” said the Devil, not unkindly.
“It’s one of your more charming tortures”
“I demand we re-evaluate this entire process,” she continued, glaring at Death and then at Tebbit. “There are worse people.”
Death turned to her, cocking his skull.
YOU, FOR INSTANCE, HAVE BEEN HERE THIRTY-TWO TIMES BEFORE YOUR DEATH.
MOST MORTALS WAIT UNTIL THE END. YOU KEEP COMING BACK TO MONITOR THE FURNACES.
“I believe in accountability!” she huffed.
“And yet” said Lucifer, “You helped the Brexit Party. Honestly, Ann, we had you pencilled in before the referendum result was even announced”
Tebbit looked between them, aghast.
“I refuse to spend eternity surrounded by moral degenerates and the ghost of Peter Mandelson!” Norman pleaded
“Oh don’t worry” said Satan. “He’s not dead yet - he just ... looks undead, but he's not mine yet"
Death leaned in one last time.
HAVEN'T YOU WORKED THIS OUT? NO DEALS, NORMAN. THIS ISN’T WESTMINSTER. YOU CAN’T WHIP VOTES IN HELL.
He turned to leave.
AND TELL YOUR FRIENDS. THE LIST IS LONG. WE’RE JUST GETTING STARTED.
With that, he vanished leaving behind only silence, brimstone, and the smell of scorched manifestos.
Behind him, Death flicked the throttle, kicked the bike to life, and disappeared with the roar of a thousand unpaid redundancy packages.
And in the Circle of Eternal Regret, Norman Tebbit watched reruns of the 1984 NUM picket line… except now he was the one being kettled. The bike he once told the nation to get on had no wheels. And every door led back to a room where Arthur Scargill kept asking politely if he'd like to talk about pensions.
AND THUS, THE COSMIC BALANCE WAS MAINTAINED. AND PERHAPS, SOMEWHERE FAR AWAY, IN AN OLDPIT VILLAGE IN COUNTY DURHAM, ON THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS ANNUAL MEET MEET WITH HIS MARRAS, A FORMER UNIONISED MINER SMILED IN HIS SLEEP
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