Chapter Text
POOF
The next thing that Macmillan knew, he was no longer clay pigeon shooting with De Gaulle and was instead standing in a remarkably spanking new room with what appeared to be a hundred people rushing to and fro.
'How strange, He thought to himself, 'Everything seems to be in technicolour. I, of course, am used to the monochromacy of 1950's Britain.'
A body ran into him but ran off before Macmillan could protest.
"Exuse me!" He called after the young fellow, "Don't you know who I am?" No response. Macmillan huffed and thought to himself vehemently,
Nobody bumps into SuperMac and gets away with it!' He looked around and his eyes alighted on a young fellow who looked half respectable among all of these hooligans.
He strode up to the man who seemed to be in the middle of lacing up his shoes. He hadn't looked up as he appeared to have earphones firmly wedged in each ear.
"Ahem!" Macmillan began, "Exuse me good sir but I wish to enquire as to who owns this establishment?" Macmillan was sure he had nailed it. The good old SuperMac charm never used to fail when he was talking to the British people. He smirked slightly to himself but quickly schooled his face back into an imploring expression.
The man had looked up in this time and took one ear phone out.
"Sorry bro, what did you say?" Macmillan was quite taken aback by this man's attitude, it was quite unbecoming to talk to a Prime Minister this way. Now, Macmillan knew that he struggled with appearing unprogressive to his people and he knew that he might have a reputation of fostering a so called 'Eton boys club' in his cabinet but this was a chance to finally reinvent himself! After all, maybe this is just how the young people talk nowadays with their new fangled technology and slang.
"I said, I wish to enquire into who owns this establishment." The young lad's brow furrowed momentarily but his schooled complexion returned in an instance.
"Um." He began. "Well the Warriors own the building obviously, but Joe owns the Warriors but Chase... funds the... stadium, actually who are you? I'm not sure if you're permitted to be here."
"Well, if I knew where 'here' was, I would be able to give you an answer to that." Macmillan bristled. "As for who I am, surely you recognise your Prime Minister? Harold Macmillan?" The young man stared at him blankly before shifting his gaze to the side and seemingly trying to beckon someone over with his eyes.
"Oh yeah sure buddy, of course I know you Harry. Can I call you Harry? Yes? Great." How odd this man was seemingly talking to himself. "Anyways, I'm Steph, it's really great to meet you but I think it's time you get going."
Finally, Steph stood up and gently took Macmillan by his shoulder and tried to steer him towards the exit.
Suddenly a cry rang out from the other side of the room. It was Draymond Green. It seemed that he had just thrown a flimsy metal chair to the ground but hadn't expected it to rebound and hit him painfully in the shins. He now lay rolling around on the floor groaning in agony.
"This isn't soccer." Someone muttered.
"NO" A new person entered the fray and went running up to Draymond. "Draymond! Are you okay?
Please say yes. We literally have no other subs for this game since everyone came down with the avian flu last weekend!" All Draymond could do was groan in agony. The new figure put his head in his hands.
"Coach," Steph began tentively, having stopped in his tracks with Macmillan by his side. "Is everything alright?" The new man, now identified as Steve Kerr, the Warriors head coach looked up slowly to Steph. He began to say something but stopped short when he caught sight of the 6 foot man that Steph was stood beside.
"Reggie," Steve began slowly, "Get this man a jersey."
"On it sir!" This so called Reggie lumbered off to the rather terrified looking kitman in the corner.
Steve now stood up with a renewed purpose, grabbing a basketball from the weedy lacky that seemed to trail him everywhere. He shoved it towards Madmillan's chest.
"Dribble this." Dribble?! DRIBBLE?! Macmillan was outraged. Never in British history has a Prime Minister been asked to dribble!
Macmillan looked appauled to Steph by his side, sure that his face must reflect quite strongly the horror that he was experiencing. Steph just looked blankly back at him and made a vague up and down gesture with his hand, elbow bent, palm to the floor, at the height of his waist.
Now it was Macmillan's turn to be confused. He copied what Steph was doing and bounced the ball a couple times.
Steve let out a harsh breath from his nose and tapped his chin. "Good enough I guess, now..." He looked around himself, "Aha! Try and get that ball, into that basket over there!" He pointed to a laundry basket that was a resonable distance away. The room had gone incredibly silent. Well, no one ever said that Macmillan was no good under pressure, we are talking about the first Prime Minister to visit the Soviet Union since the war! (Never mind that there were only three Prime Ministers between him and the war and one of them was the old Bulldog himself.)
Macmillan squared up, imagined De Gaulle's face on the laundry basket, and launched.
*Swish*
It went cleanly in.
'Huh' Macmillan thought. 'Maybe all that bird shooting was good warm up.'
Steve let out a sharp breath and the next thing Macmillan knew, he was getting accosted by Reggie who was apparently trying to wrestly a baggy jersey over Macmillan's head.
"Help!" Macmillan cried. "I am being violently attacked by a hooligan! Call the police!" Reggie stepped away once the jersey was finally over his head and looked at him unimpressed.
Macmillan chuckled and straightened his tie slightly. "Very sorry my good man, don't know what came over me. One can never be too careful in this line of work!"
Suddenly he was being shepherded off and forced to file in line with 6 other tall men who were shuffling from one foot to another, shaking out their limbs slightly.
They slowly trudged down a series of winding corridors, Steph thankfully kept him from straying off too far in the wrong direction.
'Where could we possibly be going?' Macmillan pondered, 'I am still in my dapper three piece suit so l expect it won't require too much physical exertion. Oh, I do hope it's a spot of croque, I really need something calming after the day I've had! He bumped into the person infront of him who turned and gave him to dirtiest side eye he'd ever experienced, apparently they had stopped walking right in-front of two large doors.
"Alright guys!" Steve shouted clapping his hands. "You kow the drill, get out there, follow the plan and win. On three!" He stretched his arm out and the 6 other fellows did the same and then looked over to Macmillan. After gathering what he was expected to do, he unfolded his pocket square, draped it over the top hand and added his palm to the mix. "One, two, three," Steve continued
"WARRIORS!" The others yelled and they were suddenly violently spilling through the double doors.
"My pocket square.." Macmillan said staring folornly behind him at the sad piece of cloth left helplessly on the floor as he was caught up in the swell of the crowd.
The new room that he found himself in was deafeningly loud and packed to bursting with people screaming their hearts out. Large spotlights swung from one side to another. The other men in jerseys seemed to know what they were doing and had each grabbed a ball, bouncing them, shooting them and overall displaying impressive tricks.
Things started to calm down and he was pulled back into a line and they seemed to be waiting for something although he didn't know what. The loudspeakers were still going crazy, loud foghorns sounding all around them and a crazy mashup of whatever youthful songs were popular these days, Macmillan wouldn't know, he preferred a laidback Beethoven listen sesh.
That was when the loud booming man came back over the intercom, Macmillan listened close.
"And now, put your hands together for - THE LOS ANGELES LAKERS!!!"
The... Lakers? Lakers... Lakes... Lochs... Holy Loch! Oh no! Eisenhower was coming with his Polaris submarines! Macmillan looked around to see if anyone else was as shocked as he was. Why was no one reacting?
'The Scottish are not going to like this..' Macmillan thought and braced for impact.
7 more towering men burst through the opposite doors, creating as much havok as the Warriors had upon their entrance. In contrast, to the rather agreeable royal blue jersey Macmillan had found himself forced into, these 'Lakers' sported ugly almost mustard yellow jerseys.
Macmillan was totally overwhelmed by what was going on and only came to when the Lakers were making their way down the line of Warriors. He blindly shook each man's hand until he got to the last one. He recognised that hand, wait a second!
He looked up sharply and came face to face with Anthony Eden! Damn it! He looked dapper even in that ugly shade of yellow.
Eden also seemed to freeze in his tracks, blinking madly to make sense of what he was seeing before him.
'How strange, Macmillan thought, 'It seems that we are both in the same predicament.' Steph grabbed Macmillan in an effort to take him over to the team bench and Eden was similarly grabbed by a member of his team.