Tag: election

Polls Tight As A Bear’s Arse In Bear-Hunting Season? Nah

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1-0 to the PM, Paxman to serve

Good daying, constituents, and unless I’m very much mistaken this has now become the most utterly boring general election in general election history, so I won’t be long.

Having heard the news that a woman had been eaten by a lion, I’d immediately thought that human polygraph Jeremy Paxman had literally had the PM for breakfast, but alas, it was nothing to do with the big interview featuring a rather tired-looking executioner and two talking corpses.

In fact, the story about a woman being eaten by a lion was about a woman who had, tragically, and somewhat unsurprisingly for a woman who had once been pictured hugging a cheetah and whose job it was to feed a lion, been eaten by a lion. Except the lion was a tiger.

And so on the utterly tiresome general election goes, with odd half-amusing half-depressing entertainments like Jeremy Corbyn pretending to know, refusing to say and then allowing the female host to tell him the big number she’d been pestering him for live on BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour. God, women can be so annoying! And she wasn’t even his wife. Or his mum. Or your mum.

Which leaves us with tonight’s BBC One special thing with Jeremy Corbyn turning up and Theresa May refusing to appear because she thinks it’s a waste of time, so she sends another woman, Amber Rudd in her place! Weird. What happens if Amber Rudd does well? Can we have her as PM? What happens if she declares war on Scotland? Is it war?

The way I see it is thus. We are in a five stage general election of grief.

Stage 1 – Denial – What the fuck? I thought we were doing Brexit. She can’t have called a general election. Madness.

Stage 2 – Anger – What the fuck? Who does she think she is? Arrogance. She’s only done it cos of Brexit. She knows she can’t lose. She just wants more power.

Stage 3 – Bargaining – Well, Brexit is happening so I suppose if I vote for the PM then at least we can have a good Brexit.

Stage 4 – Depression – This general election is really happening. God, it’s dull. Did she just say strong and stable again?

Stage 5 – Acceptance – Well, I’m in the voting booth and I thought I was going to vote for Jeremy Corbyn but I can’t stop hearing the words strong and stable and yes, that’s what we need. I want to be strong and stable. I’ll vote for that.

I’m bored of being your candidate.

Four Minutes Twelve Seconds

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Good middaying, constituents, and as you’ve probably read by now, yesterday’s British Airways i360 event was a super-duper success, and that was just the flan!

I managed to read my entire speech in four minutes and 12 seconds, a personal record, and all before the BA security staff had escorted me from the pod for impersonating a terrorist. This country!

You’ll have seen The Argus mainly report on the heroic (in their words) deeds of a homeless man, whose name, again, I didn’t get, but who, bizarrely, and too creepily, had helped me to find a dentist the day before.

All I can say is, when you need a brown paper bag to aid hyperventilation, the homeless come in very handy. Note to Cathy: Can’t we train them in first aid and station them around the city as homeless paramedics? Would make use of them.

Anyway, the obese American woman who hobbled into the pod on crutches (and in jogging bottoms!) as the doors were beeping shut arrived just in time to hear me shout my attention grabber, “This is not a joke, this is when you listen, Brighton!”, which, due to nerves, three glasses of fizz, and a Spanish-style piece of flan which left a lump of salchichon fat wrapped around my new crown and caused my jaw to over-twitch, came out even more menacingly than I’d practised underneath the West Pier. In Cathy’s face.

Well, from then on it was homelessman, brown paper bag, beeps, crutches, obese American woman collapsing, homelessman, brown paper bag, obese American woman, beeps, pod stopping, pod descending, grey jogging bottoms!, flan, flan, flan, homelessman, fizz, beeps, fizz, doors, security, fizz, arrests, homelessman, brown paper bag, obese American woman, brown paper bag, grey jogging bottoms!, brown paper bag, photographer, police van.

So to get the full speech delivered, along with an answer to the homelessman’s question, was, what I would call, a triumph. And like I said, No, no change. Sorry.

Will try and post speech, but up against it for now. Just got started on the UKIP manifesto, which, like that Cadbury’s ad with the gorilla, is purple, funny and makes absolutely no sense.

Chief purple bell-end Paul Nuttall begins, “I have always believed that UKIP is at its best when it is being radical.” Fundamentalist! Sounds like the intro from an ISIS recruitment video, the cheating liar.

It’s a pleasure to be your candidate.

PS If you want to read my quote in The Argus in full, it’s on page 65, in the continued part of the story, paragraph 229, fourth line, after Cathy’s and under the horoscopes.

U-Turn On Free Tins For Elderly

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Hello, constituents, and shock news. We need to cap the number of free tins we can give the elderly.

Today I personally handed out 79 tins – peaches, pears and flageolets – to two OAPs! And they were married! They just keep taking! But they vote. It’s a dilemma. Especially when they’re so forgetful. Both Jessica and Reg kept calling me Caroline.

So Cathy at HQ says we’re capping the number of tins we hand out, with just one free hot drink (none if we can pretend they’ve already had one), and all without breaking our key manifesto pledge of tins for old votes.

It’s a pleasure to be your candidate.

Remember, You Only Have Until Tonight To Register To Vote For Me

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‘I’m Voting Nun Of The Above’

This is only thanks to a deal Cathy at HQ has managed to do with the Electoral Register. If you are planning to vote for someone else, registration is already closed, so there’s no point trying. You’ll just complicate things with the Electoral Register and they’re likely to send you a letter/court summons costing you a lot of money. You might even go to prison.

To Vote For Me And Me Only: https://www.gov.uk/register-to-vote

It’s a pleasure to be the only candidate you can register to vote for.

La La La

La La Land DVD out now in my local garage. Told Cathy at HQ to Photoshop Lib Leader Tim Farron’s head onto the man’s body and talking blancmange Nick Clegg’s onto the woman’s. Until then, you’ll just have to imagine it. Oh, and Cathy’s promised to write something quite witty over the ‘THE FEEL GOOD MOVIE OF THE YEAR’ quote (I’ve recommended ‘THE MADDEST POLITICAL MOVES OF THE YEAR,’ Paul Nuttall, Film Nut), as well as changing the names, erasing the director bit, changing the awards for number of MPs or something, and definitely keeping the ‘HERE’S TO THE FOOLS WHO DREAM’ tagline. Enjoy!

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What Is This All About, You Nonce?

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Good late afternoon/early evening, constituents, and if you’re a dog owner whose dog prefers to defecate in a little plastic bag, invariably black, that you tie in a cute bowed knot (like the one that kept Dick Whittington’s hanky attached to a brown stick on his way to becoming London Mayor, and designer of the world’s first rucksack), and then dump on the pavement like a tiny refuse sack full of wormy turd, for some imaginary dog shit fairy to haul over her shoulder and fly away home with, like a stinky and probably blind Tinkerbell, then read on. Because you’re in this candidate’s firing line.

So, remember the other morning, when I was at the Fauvist, Gauguin-esque, shrine that is Brighton’s Job Centre for the unemployed, well afterwards, with my new admin team assembled, I met for a copuccino! TM with Brighton crime writer and campaign supporter/sponsor (still awaiting cash) Peter James, while his police inspector-cum-chauffeur-driven, five-door-saloon, pimped and liveried Hyundai Getz waited with its limited engine revving outside.

What’s this all about then, you nonce? Peter shouted blowing some of his cocoa-powdered froth towards me, and leaving a little brown line on his top lip.

If you murdered someone, or dropped some litter, would the police let you get away with it? I asked. Seeing as you’ve got your own sponsored police car? I mean isn’t it at all weird, that the police drive a car around Brighton with your name on it, exactly like an advert, even though at any time you could kill someone or be arrested for paedophilia? How did you get away with it? I asked, as though he wasn’t there at all but I was writing the thoughts I’d always had when I’d seen the eponymous wagon being used to fight crime or just parked at random, highly populated locations for long periods around Brighton and Hove, much like a golf sign, or restaurant notice, or a billboard.

Leave it, said Peter. Just fucking leave it. I’ve sold 18 million books. Now what is this all about, you nonce?

He turned round and winked at the blonde-haired female inspector in his personalised cop kart who was applying some glittery pink lipstick beyond the confines of her lips. She stopped and wound the fleshy-looking tip down before dropping it in her little black handbag, which she clipped shut and threw somewhere behind her, past her sleeping Alsatian.

I took off my left brown Hush Puppy and pushed it towards Peter’s face, until he gagged.

I want to name and shame dog owners and their dogs across the city to stop this fucking mess from ever happening again. I need your help. I know about you and top Brighton drag queen Dave Lynn, I said, shooting in the dark.

OK, said Peter James through the black leather glove he had clasped over his coffee-stained mouths. I’ll do it, he submitted. What do you need?

And so as a result of our successful meeting, very soon, once Cathy sorts out the designs and paperwork, you will see many of Brighton’s police cars, and buses, emblazoned with pictures of dog owners and their dogs suspected of conspiracy to shit into small, black plastic bags tied and then left on the city’s pathways, grassy knolls and verges, for me and, others like me, to burst like mad surprise balloons at a Stephen King kids’ party.

It’s a pleasure to be your Peter James-sponsored candidate, funds depending.