6.00am
“One can’t believe one has to get up
for this shit”, said Her Majesty, as the D of E inspected the gin supplies
ahead of lunchtime.
“You have an audience with the Prime
Minister this morning,” said Sir Christopher Geidt, her private secretary.
“But why? Doesn’t he remember passing
that Fixed Terms Parliament Act?”, Liz inquired. “It was quite the read, one
can tell you. “This Act does not affect Her Majesty’s power to prorogue
Parliament.” How generous of them to leave one with something to do.”
Sir Christopher suggested “I believe
that Mr Cameron sees it as a courtesy”.
“I believe that Mr Cameron sees it as
a jolly,” said Philip. “Bloody loves the trappings of the job – wants to eke
out every last bit of fun – like a fucking tourist. It’s ridiculous: someone
using their power for their own personal gratification.”
“Oh, that reminds one Philip. Did you
see that Charles sent you a letter this morning?”
6.23am
“It’s today! It’s today! Hell yeah!” screamed Ed Miliband, as he ran downstairs to look for the special election advent-calendar he’d made.
“Damn. Wrong kitchen.”
He ran back upstairs, to find Ed Balls there, and day 1 of his calendar already opened.
11.59am
“Your Majesty, Parliament has been
dissolved.”
“I know, Mr Cameron. One has a
television you know. One never misses Bill Turnbull in the morning. He is such
a charming man.”
“An Old Etonian, no less.”
“Well, one shan’t hold that against
him. Philip! Put that blunderbuss down!”
“But Liz,” replied the Duke,
“Nicholas Witchell is well within range!”
12.32pm
Safely back in Downing Street,
smelling the curtains and packing the towels into suitcases, David Cameron
meets with his campaign staff.
“Right, Dave – it’s 37 days to go.”
“We’re not campaigning on all of them
though, are we?”
“Well, yes.”
“What? Even on Sundays?”
“Yes.”
“Even this Sunday?”
“Why should this Sunday be any
different?”
“Because it’s Easter Sunday. I was
going to have an Easter Egg hunt with my children. I always find the most
eggs.”
“Sorry Dave.”
The PM, all blushed cheeks and
exasperate breath, could not understand any of this.
“How is a guy meant to chillax?” he
bellowed, before heading for lunch.
8.32am
“And who the hell is Joey Essex?”,
asked Nick.
He had been up early to give a
speech. The venue said they could only squeeze him in at 8 o’clock, and he had
to be gone by 8.45 as they needed to set up for bingo.
Now he was told that Joey, of The Only Way is Essex (a constructed reality show, and not an autobiographical work), felt that it was very important to get the youth interested in politics.
Now he was told that Joey, of The Only Way is Essex (a constructed reality show, and not an autobiographical work), felt that it was very important to get the youth interested in politics.
“Mate, you’re sick”, said Joey to
Nick.
“If only he knew,” thought Nick to
himself, but it soon became apparent that Joey knew very little at all.
“Yeah mate. You and the Liberal
Democats.”
“Demo-crats,” Nick corrected
him, but he wished he was leading the Liberal Democats. Or any other kind of
left-of-centre animal collective. Maybe he could have the otter from yesterday
in his team. Arnie was his name, and Nick had fallen in love with him at first
sight. He wanted to be back there. Anywhere but here.
“Well,” said Nick, “it’s nice to meet
you. We may not win this election, but we will fight for the most vulnerable in
society.” (By which he meant the otters.)
“I like you mate,” said Joey. “You’re
honest.”
Even Nick had to supress a laugh.
6.33am
Ed Miliband is on the battle bus, and
it really does look like a battle bus. Think if National Express did Imperial
Star Destroyers.
It’s a big day for Ed as Labour have
a problem. 103 business leaders have signed a letter to The Daily
Telegraph which (surprise, surprise) backs the Tory-led government’s
policies and urges against a change of course.
“But I wooed them,” says Ed. “Two
days ago, I wooed them, by using their words without their permission and
telling them that I would really like them to like me.”
If there’s one thing Ed doesn’t like,
it’s betrayal.
Beneath the geekish, adenoidal
exterior beats the heart of a cold-hearted killer. So it is that he welcomes
Bill Turnbull onto the Stagecoach Enterprise determined to show everyone just
how tough he is by taking a stand against zero hours contracts.
Ed is confident, assertive, and not
going to be pushed around by this Etonian, and he makes his
displeasure known, listing all of the policies that will hit higher-earners,
including the treacherous business leaders: 50% income tax above £150,000, a
mansion tax above £2 million. “The broadest shoulders should bear the greatest
burden,” he said threateningly.
“That’ll show them,” mutters Ed
afterwards. “No-one messes with tough Ed.”
He nudges a passing senior aide and
asks a “favour” of them.
7.08am
“Yes,” said Ed as he read it,
cracking his knuckles, before starting to do pull-ups and wondering whether he
should get a tattoo.
"Ed," asks an advisor.
"Have you seen this April Fools' tweet that The Sun have put up?"
"It is no joke," replies
Ed, cold and steely, tapping into his inner-Lady Macbeth.
"Ed, what do you mean?"
replies the nervous adviser, unnerved by Ed's freezing glare.
“I may not have business, but now
they know I mean business.”
5.00pm
The build-up continues to the Rumble
in Salford. We can expect a lot of blather, half-truths, downright
“statistics”. However, we must applaud Nick Clegg for being an honest
politician today, no doubt inspired by his new admirer, Joey Essex.
When asked if he can revive 2010’s
Clegg-mania tonight he replied “I doubt it”,
before retiring for some final debate prep with his key-advisers, Eeyore and
Marvin the Paranoid Android.
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.”
There is, in some quarters, a
light-hearted atmosphere on this Easter Saturday morning, not least in this
morning’s Guardian, where they have done a political blind date
between leader of the Greens, Natalie Bennett, and MP for the 19th century
and opposer of the 1832 Great Reform Act, Jacob Rees-Mogg.
Even here, though, there is a bit of
tension. Though the two profess to having got on quite well, Rees-Mogg gave his
date 10/10, whilst Bennett gave him 5/10. Well, we’ve all been there, Jacob.
The romance would have be
star-crossed at best. Natalie Bennett is a radically left-wing, modern woman,
whereas Rees-Mogg is a man who has to be restrained from making his campaign
slogan “Vox populi, vox dei”. In The Guardian write-up of
their date, he was asked “What do you think she made of you?” He replied: “No idea.
To see oneself as others see one is a great gift, but not one I necessarily
have.”
No Jacob. I think that
"one" does not necessarily have that gift.
1 Events depicted may differ from actual events. In fact, this is a work of fiction, with some facts. But mostly, it's nonsense.
