There’s a joke doing the rounds that Susan Boyle called The Prime Minister last night to see how his mental health was. It’s not been a good week for either of them and one suspects GB may have asked her if there’s any room for him in the next bed to her at the Priory clinic. They would make a lovely couple if they hooked up, actually. The tabloids would have a new pair of nutcases to stalk, and doubtless dub them Brobo: “Brobo in all-night binge at China White”, “Exclusive pics of Brobo on beach in Barbados” (best not think about that one too long), and hopefully “Brobo to Adopt African Orphan”—well let’s hope they do adopt as I hate to think what their offspring would look like.
But of course this is all nonsense. Gordon is many things but he is a loyal man. Loyal to his wife Sarah, loyal to Blair, loyal to himself. He’ll never do the dirty on his wife, and it will take a monumental effort to oust him from office. The knives are out but he’s committed to the work which he so strongly believes his God has sent him to do. Maybe by the time you’ve read this (or even by the time I’ve finished typing it) he would have committed Edwina Kari and fallen on his sword, but I suspect not.
I can just imagine in 20 years time watching TV and looking at the grainy, long lens images of a man in a shabby white shirt, bag in hand, fingernails bitten to the quick, and smiling out of context as he tries to stop Cameron’s tanks advancing across Trafalgar Square down Whitehall. News correspondents and historians will discuss the images: “Whatever happened to that man? we don’t even know his name”. The government, about to sit for their 6th straight term owing to the complete lack of opposition, will refuse to release any details of the man’s whereabout or fate. They’d have long ago closed down the BBC and Youtube but still rumours abound that he once went on camera, weeks before he made the ultimate sacrifice, and made a complete arse of himself. But all evidence of that footage will have been erased, along with The Stranglers back catalogue.
The events of the politcal meltdown leading up to the 2029 election will have been well documented. It started with the expenses row back in 2009 when some bloke called Darling and his ugly sisters, Hazel and Jacqui stuck their politcal knees into the private parts of the party that had previously brought them fame and fortune. In the local and European elections that followed, the sitting government recorded nil points as the voters, like lemmings, fled over the cliff of ignorance and onto the rocks of fascism below. The BNP and UKIP (later to amalgamate into BUNKUP) came in a close third behind what used to be called the Liberal Democrats, led by the charismatic erm…
But it was the Tory party who reigned supreme and by the time of the next general election (about three weeks later) the Labour Party had declared thermo-nuclear war on itself. In a last act of madness, Dame Petra Mandleson had re-instated David Blunkett (‘The Bonker of Brightside’) and his mate John ‘Two Face’ Prescott to charm the country. Pedictably none of the remaining few labour stalwarts could vote for laughing and the party disbanded. The Tories achieved a landslide, the former Blair Babes joined BUNKUP and within five years they’d done to the fascists what Blunkett had been doing to other people’s wives for years. In 2024, King Charles the Bonkers, tired of waiting for the LibGreen Party (as they now were) to win any votes in a proper election, threw in the towel and dissolved the Monarchy. President Osborne, fresh from a successful season of peasant-shooting, officially took office in October 2025.
When I went to the Polling station today there were no checkers outside. No old grannies in rosettes asking for your number, no-one taking exit polls. First time I’ve seen that. I suspect the major parties fear the worse and don’t want to lose too many of the party activists and faithful to violent assault by the angry mob. Pity actually because, as usual, I’d donned my best bib-and-tucker (always no1s on polling day) and I do like to have a gentle chat with these old dears and beardy-wierdies outside the school where I vote, before shouting “bugger off and mind your own business” when they ask me who I voted for. It’s a great thing, voting, no matter what the current circumstances. The bastards will soon-enough take the vote away from us if it seems that we don’t want it. So go out and exercise your right. You don’t need to wear your Sunday Best—you can wear a vest and a thong if you prefer. And vote for a proper, mainstream party—any of them—just not the Nazis, the Xenophobes or the single-issue mob. Cos you know what’ll happen if you don’t: You’ll get loonies and extremists like me taking over.