general election

Where’s Boris?

“Another drink, Sir?”

The Right Honourable Boris Johnson didn’t look like he needed another drink. He reclined in awkward repose upon a blue velvet 18th century chaise longue, resplendent in a silk Japanese robe and little else.  He turned his head towards the very nice man who was offering him another drink.

“A humble measure would suit me decorously, old bean!” Boris replied, with some enthusiasm.

His obliging companion was his permanently irritated butler, Snetterton.

“And what form will the humble measure take this time, Sir?”

“Oh. Well – what was the last one?”

“The last one was a creme de menthe, Sir,” replied Snetterton, eyebrow twitching furiously. “The one before that, was a Pernod.”

Before the bemused Boris could answer, an almighty crash and shower of shattered glass erupted from the bay windows, encouraged no doubt by the garishly-attired figure travelling through it apace. Boris sat up with a start, causing the silken robe to suppress yet less of his sturdy assemblage.  Snetterton tutted.

“It would appear that Mr Nigel Farage is here to see you, Sir.”

“Farage! Bing-bang-bully-o for that! Well, if it’s Farage invading my supplicatory shack I suppose it had better be pints all round, what!”

Snetterton effectuated the most subtle eye roll known to man.

“Certainly, Sir. Two pints of what, would you suggest?”

“Chablis, if you will, Snetterton. Nigel! What are you playing at you dastardly fopdoodle?” Boris flung his arms wide, inviting a manly embrace.

Farage tolerated this unflattering reception, on the grounds that he had been called far worse.

While Snetterton retreated to the drinks cabinet, Nigel got uneasily to his feet and limped towards what he deemed to be a distinctly uninviting-looking Boris. Keen to avoid any physical contact, Nigel perched himself at the far end of the chaise longue and cast furtive glances in the direction of an industrious Snetterton.

“Quite an entrance you made there, chum,” remarked Boris. “That calls for a drink! Huzzah!”

“It was your bloody dogs!” Nigel cried. “They chased me all the way from the bloody carpark.”

“It’s not a carpark, you ridiculous peasant, it is a sweeping approach.”

Snetterton returned with two magnificent pints of Chablis and the mood improved immediately.

“So, what brings you here?” asked Boris, hardly noticing that a small pool of Chablis had gathered in his navel.

“Well, as a fellow Brexiteer and notorious trouser-dropper, I’ve been worried about you,” replied Nigel. “All this to-do about the general election and you’re nowhere to be seen! What’s going on?”

“Aha, well, Bozza here has had some pergravis pursuits on his hands, I tell you. All in preparation for that most auspicious of dates – 10th June!”

10th June?” queried Nigel, his brows knotting so tightly it would take a brawny sailor to untie them. “The election is on the 8th June!”

“Damn and blast the buggering election!” blustered Boris. “No, no, no man. No. Lucy Brazier’s spanking new novel – PorterGirl – The Vanishing Lord – is released on 10th and there’s going to be almighty carousing in Cambridge on the very day! Broadcast across the globe by all manner of technical jiggery-pokery. I’ve invented a pair of self-removing trousers for this very occasion and it has taken up all my time. Old Bozza hasn’t even had a moment to consider this election whiffle-waffle.”

“Blimey, I bet the Prime Minister’s furious!”

“Actually, it was her that suggested it,” Boris paused to take a large swig of Chablis. “Can’t think why…”

“She was probably concerned about you coming out with more of that 15th century gutter talk…”

“And that’s another thing!” Boris brightened immediately. “There’s plenty of fine medieval trash-talking and lashings of rumpy-pumpy in the new book! Huzzah!”

“Well, it sounds utterly marvellous,” said Nigel, clasping his hands together with glee. “Where can I get my hands on a copy?”

“It’s available on pre-order now!” replied Boris, only a small amount of Chablis dribbling from his chin. “Whatever the result next Thursday it’s bound to be horrific for all concerned – The Vanishing Lord will be just the thing to cheer up the hoi polloi and idiot elite alike!”

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The Lib Dems Know Something We Don’t

Tim Farron, much like of the rest of the UK, is musing upon the actual point of the Liberal Democrats. With an ambiguous policy on homosexuality and a pathological intention to overturn Brexit, the party is neither particularly liberal nor especially democratic, it would seem. As he strokes a chin untroubled by stubble or growth of any kind, his lovely wife Rosie stumbles abruptly into the room.

“Oh my!” she exclaims. “Who are you and what are you doing in my lounge?”

“Why, I am Tim Farron!” Tim replies. “Leader of of Liberal Democrats. Your husband.”

Rosie squints slightly, before nodding with some relief.

“Oh yes. Of course you are.”

Tim sighs. If it hadn’t been for the upcoming general election, no one would know who he was at all.

“Tim, I’m doing some breakfast. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Many people like a hot beverage with breakfast and that’s absolute fine by me,” says Tim in his typically nondescript manner.

“Yes, dear, but would you like a cup?”

“I’ve got nothing against tea and coffee is lovely too.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee, then?”

“Whatever drink people decide to have for breakfast is fine by me,” says Tim, his words bumbling out of his mouth like drunken bees. “What I have for breakfast is, frankly, irrelevant.”

“Look, the kettle’s on – do you want a drink or not?” huffs Rosie. “That’s four times I’ve asked you, now!”

“Listen, I haven’t got time for that,” replies Tim. “There are far more important things to think about.”

“If you’re going to bang on about that new PorterGirl book, I already know all about it,” says Rosie. “Everyone who’s anyone is talking about it!”

“Aha, yes – but do they know about the transatlantic launch party being hosted in the heart of historic Cambridge?” gasps Tim excitedly, leaping to his feet. “Being broadcast live across Twitter and Facebook and featuring American author and blogger Dan Alatorre?”

Rosie staggers slightly in shocked awe.

“What – not the two of them, together in real life?”

“The very same!” Tim claps with glee. “Giving interviews, potted histories of Cambridge, exclusive Q&As with fans and even a drinking competition!”

“Oh my!”

“Yes – there’ll be no empty chairs at this grand debate and that’s for certain!”

“But when is it happening?” asks Rosie, scrabbling for a notepad and pen. “I must order a new hat!”

“That’s the thing,” says Tim, folding his arms. “It will be announced any day now. I won’t be able to tear myself away from the internet until I know for sure. The whole thing is a closely guarded secret.”

“Ah, much like the raison d’être of the Lib Dems,” Rosie nods, sagely. “Now I understand. I’ll leave you to it.”

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Calamity At Corbyn HQ

Up and down the country, Tories are rubbing their hands together with glee whilst Labour MPs (increasingly becoming an endangered species) are standing precariously on railway bridges, wondering where it all went wrong. Meanwhile, their brave and fearless leader, Jeremy Corbyn, sits at home cheerfully weaving a basket whilst mumbling incoherently at a papier mache bust of Ken Livingstone. His exasperated wife pops her head round the door.

“Jeremy!”

“Sshh, dear, I am conversing with Ken.” Jeremy looks up from his basket only briefly. “Please excuse Laura, Ken.”

“Jeremy, you’ve been weaving all morning,” says Laura. “Will you at least have a little something to eat?”

“Is there any of my homemade jam left?” inquires Jezza. “Perhaps some jam and scones.”

“That jam has gone off,” Laura replies. “It’ll give you the trots.”

“Oh, but we love the Trots!” Jezza turns to the bust on his desk. “Don’t we, Ken?”

“Look, dear, I really think you ought to put down that basket and get to work. There’s the general election to think about and the party is in disarray…”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Jezza retorts, defiantly. Laura sighs.

“Yes, I know, dear, we all know.”

“No, no – I mean I’m really not going anywhere. Lucy Brazier is due to make an announcement soon about the release of her new book, PorterGirl – The Vanishing Lord and I don’t want to miss it.”

“Lucy who?”

“She writes about a great British institution that is lead by out-of-touch old crusties who contumaciously adhere to obsolete and dated ideas and practices, regardless of what the rest of the world think and societal progress. Fancy that!”

Laura sighs again.

“Yes, Jeremy. Just fancy that.”

 

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