Lawyers Road Review

Under heavy escort and in complete secrecy, Prime Minister Winston Churchill is driven to the offices of his therapist.

“Good afternoon Mr. Churchill, it is good to see you again.”

Thank you doctor Freud, although I might say it is not always good to see you.

“How have things been going since I saw you last?”

Terrible, just terrible. We lost Singapore and then Tobruk. I was in Washington when I got the news from Africa. I was the most miserable Englishman in America since Burgoyne.

“Very well, how about now, what is troubling you today?”

Still miserable. It’s the Americans. The Americans are the trouble. They are so, well, familiar. They don’t go in much for introductions. I much prefer the manner in which I am announced in the Middle East, sort of the long history of the family, Duke of Marlborough, Blenheim Palace and all of that followed up with the usual “Loins quake in their dens at his approach” kind of thing.

None of that in Washington. It is said we British walk as if we own the world and the American’s walk as if they don’t give a damn who owns the world. But you can trust them to do the right thing, once all other possibilities are exhausted.

“Your mother was American wasn’t she Mr. Churchill?”

The wine of life was in her veins. Sorrows and storms were conquered by her nature and on the whole it as a life of sunshine. Yes, she was an American and I am very much on both sides of the war between us and we.

“Precisely, an examination of that relationship may give us some clues into why you are so upset with the Americans. You, and Great Britain, need the Americans, don’t you?”

Like the fields need the rain. It’s a special relationship.

“Well then, let’s get started. We simply must deal with these repressed feelings. When did you first have a desire toward Lady Randolph Churchill?”

I never have! What kind of people do you think we are?

“Very well, let’s take up your unresolved competition you have had with your father for your mother’s affection.”

What?

“Certainly you must see that your vanity, your hyper aggression and over ambitious nature is a result of this competition, vying for your mother’s attention over that of your father. This is what we call an Oedipus complex.”

Those Greeks are so overrated. I have said just as good things as their ancients myself. They owe their reputation to the fact they got to be first with everything. Or are you referring to the Greek campaign? We could have saved them you know, had we not been in a constant argument with their command.

“No Mr. Churchill, I am not talking about the defeat in Greece. I am talking about your phallic stage of psychosexual development.”

I would rather talk about the Greeks. Who was Socrates anyhow? A very argumentative Greek who had a nagging wife and was finally compelled to commit suicide because he was a nuisance. Still he was beyond a doubt a considerable person. But don’t worry about me doctor, it is never necessary to commit suicide, particularly when one may live to regret it.

“Ah, now we are getting somewhere. I detect an element of self-doubt. I suggest that last statement references your libido and fear of castration.”

I am like a bomber pilot. I go out night after night knowing one night I shall not return. Although I am always prepared for martyrdom, I prefer it to be postponed. I am however ready to meet my maker. Whether he is ready to meet me is quite another matter.

“So, you do believe in God, the Father?”

Well there must be. Consider Lenin and Trotsky, as well as Herr Hitler are evidence of hell. There is likely a balance in nature.

“Which brings me back to my hypothesis about you Mr. Churchill. We simply must work through your competition with your father for your mother’s attention in order to achieve that balance so you may retain your partnership with the Americans and save Britain.”

Well that chicken is not hatched, but perhaps you hear it pecking at its shell. I have nothing to offer you Doctor but blood, toil, tears and sweat. You don’t have any scotch to offer me, do you Doctor?