If I had seriously suggested that Donald Trump would be President, Andrea Leadsom Prime Minister and Jeremy Corbyn leader of the Opposition you would have committed me to a place of safety. But in this Munchian period of world affairs our voters are having great fun in putting the dick into unpredictability. I know, let’s sit down, pour four fingers of finest malt and have a think about this.
So what does Loathesome represent? We don’t know yet, but soon Nick Wood, proprietor of Media Intelligence Partners and former communications chief to IDS, will be telling her. However, we do know whom she represents. The lost tribe of Conservatism. The sort of people who would have been passionate members of the Monday Club. Grizzled old men with more dandruff than a dead badger who would loiter outside party conferences distributing badly printed leaflets screaming for us to get out of the EEC and how immigrants were taking over the country. That would be the ‘steel’. But there would always be the ‘velvet glove of compassion’ in that there would be generous repatriation grants. A land fit for Millwall supporters.
If Bozo was the prisoner of the unacceptable right, Loathesome is its cheer leader. Jean creaming endorsements from Farage and Banks prove that she is the host to their parasite. What decent politician really wants such encouragement? Why bother to elect the KIPPERS? They would effectively be in government. Fromage was quite right when he said that his work was done. His Cuckoo has been just been hatched and chucking the other chicks out of the nest.
When I saw that rag bag of delusionists, no hopers, grudgeesters and those with mild personality disorders marching upon Westminster shouting ‘Leadsom for leader’, thought that it was sad but faintly amusing. And then I had a more sinister thought. These bloody people could be the next government.
It’s a bit like Ufologists who have been mocked all their lives for being slightly weird suddenly discover that a flying saucer really has landed at the bottom of their garden. They are now regarded as the experts. So now the press want answers.
‘So Miss Loathesome all your life you have predicted that there are little green men out there. Tell us, are they hostile and are going to wipe us off the face of the earth or do they come in peace wanting to share their technology with us? Oh, and will you negotiate on behalf of the world? Your great experience as a telephone hygienist and in telesales for your brother in law’s PPI claim firm is invaluable’.
Well, I think we know the answer. In truth she doesn’t have a clue, but egged on by the hopeful dispossessed, desperate for a seat at the table, she will appear before the cameras in her best happy clown makeup (wake up Brookes, Rowson and Bell) and radiate happy bunny, homespun optimism with all the charm of an Essex school dinner lady looking after her rowdy kids.
‘Miss Loathesome why are you so sure that these Martians aren’t armed and will kill, maim and enslave us?’
‘Oh don’t talk our country down. They need us more than we need them. We are heading for the sunny uplands. They will give us their wonderful new technology for free! There may be a few bumps in the road though. Perhaps the elimination of a few major cities like Paris or Berlin. But breath deeply and feel the exhilaration of freedom. Isn’t it wonderful? Of course we can’t let all of the Martians in, but they won’t mind, they respect the fact that although they may have hideous weapons of mass destruction way beyond our comprehension, we are a sovereign nation. Optimism, optimism, optimism, let’s ban pessimism!!!’
At that a young man sporting a Union Jack bow tie, horn rimmed glasses and a face about to explode with acne hands her two feather dusters and presses the guide track for Ken Dodd’s ‘Happiness’. But just as Miss Loathesome is treating an hysterical and damp gussetted crowd to the second verse, nobody notices that a hatch on the spacecraft is slowly opening casting an eerie glow.
To be continued…….
