Labour - "We're fuc*ed in England"
By Withered Vine, Our London Affairs Correspondent
"Labour are fuc*ed, shafted, bonked and screwed all over England", ran the flier in a Soho phonebox for a lecture.
Although I am more used to lechers than lectures, I had taken part in much of that myself and, intrigued that I might get a mention, went along. Sadly it was about the next election (and I had just misheard the word).
The theme was an article in something called "Labour Uncut" (the Gentile version, I presume).
"No matter the gains in England and Wales, the basic truth is clear; Miliband cannot become Prime Minister unless Labour, and by extension his arch-foe, 'Creepy' Jim Morphy, claws back hundreds of thousands of votes from the SNP."
My arithmetic isn't the best, but that seemed odd. Even if Labour had grabbed all 573 seats in England and Wales - something even I haven't managed to do - then Miliband still couldn't become PM?
What had happened to the FACT: The largest party will form the government?
But Westminster is strange. Could "party" mean something else? A powerful totem in the hands of Miliband's evil nemesis?
A man with such power I had to have! Creepy Jim - You are mine!
Only the great and powerful Wizard of Oz could possibly arrange the introduction, so I followed the Yellow Brick Road to John McTernan's lair, accompanied by my guides. Sue'em Dalgetybay (who has no heart), Bliar McDonut (with no brain) and cowardly Jollyless Lament (who kept running away).
I'll skip describing our adventures (you have all seen the film). Suffice to say that the red rosetted monkeys were barely visible. As one told us: "Fleein fur thae useless bastirts? Ah couldnae gie a fleein fu*k."
Eventually, I reached McTernan's bunker, hidden by smoke and mirrors - or "Greggs" as it is affectionately known by the little people who live nearby.
The security precautions to get beyond the Scotch Pie display case, into the inner sanctum of the "Patriotic Party" are truly impressive
I was required to repeat the words on the card with no trace of an English accent.
While my rendering of "It's a brawr brikt moonlikt nikt, the nikt" may not have been perfect, the demonstration of my ball handling skills (one of my specialities) and showing the camera that I wore no groinal undergarment (would I ever?) gained me access.
That bunker is an impressive place! Totally shielded from reality, the huge video monitors project the current SLAB message to their supporter.
Like isotopes of elements synthesized in the nuclear physics labs, the messages have half-lives of less than one second, but Dalgetybay was enthusiastic about them.
"Our Glasgow Man supporter has a very limited attention span", she said, "and in any case every drink he buys comes with a free roll of gaffa tape to shut the women up. It's a brilliant strategy.
"Just look at the recent polling. No longer are more men than women voting SNP."
It then became clear why Dalgetybay had been classified as polluted with poisonous radiation and declared off limits to human contact.
Lament, meanwhile, looked horrified at the Technicolor screens flashing the messages "Save Murphy!! Save East Ren!! Power to the mainstream middle class!!"
"Once, all this was mine", she muttered and fled for the exit.
I joined her, realising that I would get more satisfaction from Wee Willie Rennie than this crew.
Labour Uncut: Is Labour prepared for a second Cameron government?
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