Friday 3rd April
The aftermath started early, and the shocks from Salford were not heard in
every lulled and dumbfound town, but they may well have been heard in Windsor.1
0.00am
The Royal Family had been up all
night playing The Debate Bingo Drinking Game. The Duke of Edinburgh was in the
whisky cellar with Harry because he'd struck out, having had topics such as The
Corn Laws and The Ship Tax on his card. Harry, meanwhile, was in the whisky
cellar because… it was the whisky cellar.
Prince Edward had had to retire
early. He thought he was safe with his card, which had simply had the acronym
AIDS plastered all over it. "Surely no-one will mention that," he thought. As such, he had had to down a bottle of tequila,
and was being nursed to sleep by the Countess of Wessex whilst he was singing “Torremolinos”.
This left a happy band, led by
Her Majesty who had given into her rampant socialist sympathies. “My favourite
was Mr Wilson. We agreed on so much. I told him “As its chief recipient, I am
all in favour of the Welfare State.” But this man Miliband is a shower. I like
Nicola Sturgeon. When Scotland eventually gets independence, I’m going to move
my official residence to Balmoral and hold the Prime Ministerial audience by
telegram.”
“But you’ll be dead by then,”
said Charles.
Liz smiled at him and lit up another
cigarette.
0.01am
“Is everything alright Dave?”
“It’s fine Samantha,” said the
Prime Minister staring moodily out of the window into the Salford night.
“Dave, what is it?”
“I just didn’t know he could hurt
me like that.”
“Who darling?”
“Nick. How could he say all those
things? Doesn’t he remember the good times? The Rose Garden. The Cabinet
meetings. The night we drank champagne after Chris Huhne got sent to the
slammer.”
“Oh, darling. You really loved
him didn’t you?”
“I thought he was a fag to me.
But he wasn’t. He was more than a fag. He was like… a butler.”
0.10am
“You did swoosh around to the
camera a lot.”
“Really, Justine?”
“Yeah. You’d suddenly turn on it
as if you had a cape behind you.”
“I was just turning to the
audience.”
“Yes, but then you sort of stared
at us and it was a little like you were trying really, really hard to seduce
us.”
“Those were my come-hither eyes.”
“I know, Ed. It was like our
first date all over again, just on a national scale.”
“Well, that worked didn’t it?”
“Eventually, darling.”
1.00am
Back at Media City, things are
finally winding down in the Zanussi Spin Room.
George Osborne, Douglas Alexander
and Paddy Ashdown have just finished their umpteenth post-match interview,
which is a bit like Match of the Day holding interviews with the kit men of
Chelsea, Manchester United and Arsenal, rather than with Mourinho, Van Gaal and
Wenger.
“That was a load of nonsense,”
says Paddy after it’s all finished. “Prepared lines. Claim and counter-claim. It
was little more than football chanting. Why do we do this?”
“Simple: if you guys are going to
be there vacuously backing your guy, I’m damn sure I’m going to be there doing
the same,” replied George. Or Douglas. It doesn’t really matter.
In the bowels of a Manchester
Police Station, Victoria Prosser, better known by her Batman-esque nickname, “The
Heckler”, is sitting, awaiting interrogation.
“This is outrageous,” she thinks
to herself. “I just wanted to speak my mind. They have no right to detain me.
No right.”
Suddenly, the door opens and a
tall, well-built man strides in. He looks at her intimidatingly, but she’s a
brave girl and she stands up to him.
“I have a right to free speech. I
have committed no crime. I want a lawyer.”
“Don’t worry, love,” replied the
Chief Constable, in a surprisingly camp voice. “You’re not here because of
that. You’re not in trouble.”
“Oh. Well, why am I here?”
“I just had to know where you got
that gilet from. It’s fabulous.”
“Oh. River Island.”
“Fantastic,” said the copper. “Now,
my uniform. Do you really think I’m pulling this hat off?”
8.00am
Very firmly in the morning after
the night before, and the Nationalists have returned to their nations. The
other leaders are staying put in Lancashire, and Lancashire has responded in
the traditional manner, by which I mean to say that it’s pissing it down.
First, to the papers, and The Daily Telegraph has got the mess
sorted. The headline: “Miliband flops as outsiders shine”. “Ed Miliband was
left in a humiliating fourth position last night having only scored 15% in our
post-debate poll, whereas Prime Minister and blue-tie model David Cameron
roared into a commanding third place.”
The predominant sense is of a
total mess, no clear winner, and the certainty of a Hung Parliament. Four polls
were conducted last night, each one listing different winners and losers, and so
the question turns to coalitions. Labour have ruled out all coalitions, whilst
the Conservatives refuse to rule out a coalition with UKIP. It’s bad enough
that the Tories are evading this valid question, but they’re getting Michael
Gove to do it, which is unbearable because he is, to be frank, a terrible politician.
At least when everyone else is asked a straight question, they have the decency
to give you a straight lie.
11.53am
In Labour Party Headquarters,
there is a huge commotion.
“Shit, shit, shit,” cries David Axelrod,
Labour’s imported campaign strategist. “They’re wearing the same clothes.
Cameron and Miliband. They look like Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dumber.”
Everyone huddled around a screen,
where, indeed, you could see the two men in different places but both wearing a
dark jumper over a blue collared shirt.
“They look like brothers,” said
Axelrod, unaware that this was a major faux pas in Labour HQ.
Dave & Ed this morn: that awkward moment when you're wearing exactly same as bloke you are trying to be different to pic.twitter.com/wF6XIctEXw
— Jess Brammar (@jessbrammar) April 3, 2015
12.01pm
As the Prime Minister continued
on his merry way, Nathaniel nudged Piers to show him a tweet.
“They’re wearing the same
clothes, Piers.”
“I know, Nathaniel.”
“This is awkward, Piers.”
“I know, Nathaniel.”
“Should we do anything, Piers?”
“I don’t know, Nathaniel. After
all, they are the ones who want to be alternative and we’re the ones who are
saying stick the course. I say, stick to our long-term plan and let them be
radical.”
12.02pm
“He needs to look alternative,”
chimes Axelrod. “What can we do?”
“Maybe a Shoreditch vibe,”
suggests an aide, “with collarless shirt, chinos, funky shoes, cool glasses and
a modern, short-back-and-sides haircut.”
“Good, we’ll take it. He needs it
straight away. Are there any good hairdressers in Blackpool?”
“I don’t know. Never been. I’m
from Islington.”
5.00pm
Everyone’s a little tired today.
Nick Clegg is having tea as he prepares to campaign in his newly marginal seat
of Sheffield Hallam across Easter weekend. Once again, this comes from Lib Dem
polling data suggesting that people liked the idea of a Clegg Roast.
As the politicians ease off the
gas, the Royal Family are nursing their hangovers. Prince Edward is still abed,
and the Queen is mulling over her options.
“If Farage ends up on the Privy
Council, I’m abdicating,” she shouts.
Charles hears this and starts
writing some letters.
1 Events depicted may differ from actual events. In fact, this is a work of fiction, with some facts. But mostly, it's nonsense.
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