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Good night, constituents.
So, while Jeremy Corbyn’s face continues to be a fart no-one in the Labour Party dares take responsibility for, the big news is the even greater revelation that was told to me in complete confidentiality by an under-age member of the Conservative Party over gins and nibbles in a closed toilet cubicle upstairs in the Bright Helm Wetherspoons, just down from the train station and near the sea.
Having opened his packet of Bacon Fries, somewhat theatrically, by swelling the bag with a pinch from the bottom and then squeezing until the top burst, like a great piggy burp, much, it seemed to me, like Boris Johnson speaking, my downy-lipped Tory mole stood silently waiting for 10-second thrusts from one of the three hand dryers outside, during which time he shouted in my face exactly what I’d suspected all along, through a bendy straw and with a smell of powdered pork essence:
This election, constituents, is a massive cry for help from the Prime Minister, who, my pale-faced, red-cheeked, laughing mole excitedly told me while shaking some of his fizzy tonic over the floor and very close to my new brown Hush Puppies, is being sacrificed by her party for all the Brexit shit that’s to come!
And with his words ringing in my ears and an incessant rushing of hot air flowing up from under our cubicle door, as one unknown man repeatedly dropped and lifted his wet soapy hands in a Dyson Airblade AB14, apparently unable to get them dry enough to step out of the toilets, I lowered the black lid, sat down, and let the, now I realised it!, Haley Joel Osment from Sixth Sense lookalike flush.
Yes, I thought, as the new water washed away the old and the cistern began filling. Her name was everywhere. And as soon as Brexit went wrong for anyone and everyone, the hard ones, the soft ones, the sticky remaining ones, someone would have to take the blame for the sake of the party.
Theresa May Theresa May Vote Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Vote Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Vote Theresa May, it was literally writ large, and sometimes small.
Yes, her name had already replaced that of the party which would eventually forsake her like an old goat tethered over a white cliff, the one party she had faithfully served since the day of her initiation ceremony with gammon and pineapple-hatted Eric Pickles and his infamous black pudding.
And slowly, as the water level in the cistern reached its height, and the noise outside silenced to a couple of clacking high heels, and then one door and then the next opening and closing, I unlocked the cubicle, peered into the vacant, blue-tiled room, and allowed the teary-looking boy to leave our confidential booth having cut, yet again, the name of his, soon to be ex, leader into the back of our long, grey door with a Wetherspoons’ spoon.
It’s a pleasure to be your candidate.
Good luncheon, constituents!
And to hear the media hoohaha the other morning over Labour’s leaked manifesto, well, I thought it must have had a glossy cover of Comrade Corbyn’s saluting cock and his famous left ball, which due to the central dominance of his right one, appears much farther left than is actually the case.
I mean way to go, spoiling all the fun of next week’s 20,000-word document launch.
And as a SPOILER ALERT for all of you non-journalists, or as I like to call you, voters, who haven’t and aren’t ever going to read any of it, look away now:
THE CONSERVATIVES WIN.
No, it seems there’s nothing funnier in politics right now than 20,000 words of detailed policies and promises (literally in black and white) on plans to turn the NHS, education, housing, and transport back into actual things for actual people, and it doesn’t even have a title!
Yet, for the right-wing media, the wankifesto TM promised a dark return to the 1970s with its plans to renationalise the railways and utilities, scrap university tuition fees and boost workers’ rights, and all without reviving any of the fun of their debauched parties at secret addresses in London where the nibbles were all alive.
The only hope is next week JC, in a turnaround bigger than a Prime Minister definitively ruling out a snap election and then calling one six months later, declares his intention to attack North Korea and expel all immigrants, even the useful ones, all while dressed up as a pirate. Just to Jezz it up TM, and quite possibly win the election.
Anyhow, onto the news, and here’s a leak of my own. From a letter I was passed, in secret, across the knives and forks and condiments in the Bright Helm, just down from the train station and near to the sea, and home to my temporary chair and table for office work:
FROM BRIGHTON HOSPITAL
Your referral is important to us. It is our aim to offer you an appointment as soon as possible, however due to high demand for some services you may experience a longer wait to be seen.
When your child has reached the top of the Outpatient waiting list we will contact you with an offer of an appointment. You may be offered an appointment at any of the hospital sites within our Trust, to ensure that you are seen within the shortest possible time.
So to surmise, the hospital is running two waiting lists, the second of which I imagine is recorded as a government statistic, the first most probably not. Once an appointment is made, it might be absolutely miles away, and you won’t be able to get there. Then you can get in line one again. While your child remains unseen.
When I order a refreshing pint of Ruddles in the Bright Helm, I stand in a queue until I’m served. Actually, these days Darren the deputy manager takes my order at my table, but that’s a private arrangement.
It’s a pleasure to be your candidate.
What more is there to say?
Tonight, in a long-running saga of politicians docufessing TM in the hope it reveals the real person they actually believe inhabits them, somewhere behind those blank robotic eyes and between those dull and meaningless lines of English they get forced to repeat by an unknown director of key message words, Liberal leader Tim Farron admits to having a poster of 1980s Conservative pin-up Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom when he was a wanking adolescent.
Which means, during the Falklands War, the Miners’ Strike, the milk-snatching, that speech when William Hague tried to trick his potential groomers by acting like his tight pair of Yorkshire puddings were dangling way down past their prepubescent prime, the Brixton riots, the IRA bombs, even when some froth flicked Neil Kinnock onto his arse and lost Labour an election, as though the Conservatives controlled the tides themselves, during all of that, the now top Democrat was probably sat wrapped in a blue blanket, lying under his blue duvet, on his mostly blue bed sheet, liberally taxing his stiff little pole.
I mean, what more is there to say?
Apart from the picture I saw today of Theresa May, yes Mrs T!, giving it the full BA Baracus in front of a poster which said the May Team! Well, she is the Face of the Tories. Blah blah blah. Oh yeah, she works with/for Murdoch. Christ. Idiots!
It’s a pleasure (but not in a Tim Farron way) to be your candidate.