Looking for a General Election commentator known for his honesty, integrity and rationality? Sir Eugene Nicks, QC, KBE, falls some way short of those standards, but S&C is an equal opportunities employer so we let him have a go anyway.
As you might be dimly aware, readers – and most of you are rather dim, let’s be honest – there appears to be some sort of election going on in a couple of days’ time. Frankly, I don’t know why we bother anymore. After two centuries of these wheezes we should all have realised that they’re utterly pointless. Anyone who hasn’t had their head trepanned by an armless, blindfolded sherry-bibber knows that. Incidentally, that did happen to me the other day when I was being re-initiated into the All-Portsea Conservative, Regressive and Imperialist Association (established 1799). Even after they’d sponged all the gore up with a lock of Peter Griffiths’ pubic hair and given me some laudanum for the ache, I still know the simple truth: elections are a jolly great carton of codswallop.
Why? Because they don’t make any difference at all. And a bally good thing too. By all means you of the hoi polloi may enjoy the fiction that putting a cross on a bit of paper – most of you can’t read and write anyway, thank a Justine Greening-shaped God for that! – might give you a say on something or rather. But the splendid reality is that it’s my very good chums who really run the show: the spies, the soldiers, the moneylenders, the natty bowler hats of the civil service, that Antipodean vampire fellow who owns all the hate gazettes and those salivating perverts hiding in all the drawers around the BBC.
The wonderfully efficient thing about British – ha! – democracy is that none of the above ever have to go through the tedious rigmarole of getting themselves elected or ever being accountable to anyone at all, not least proles like you. When I was an MP back in the eighties, clinging onto the petticoat of Mrs T* – I mean that both literally and figuratively – I was under no illusions that I had any power to do anything but indulge my peculiar urges at the taxpayer’s expense.
All I did was rubber-stamp – and rubber stamps are one of my peculiar urges, it must be confessed – whatever m’chums (above mentioned) wanted to do for – but more often to – this noble island kingdom we can confidently still call England.**
Be that as it May, a doddering mob of cringeworthy cretins are trying to persuade you to vote for them, so I might as well tell you why they’re all so doddering and cringeworthy. First – and definitely least – is our cherished Prime Minister. She looks like a cross between a sadistic Spanish priest from circa 1680 AD and the matron at my old school who, er, got into hot water for pouring boiling water over poor little [the following passage was deleted by the Star & Crescent editors upon the forceful advice of their legal team]. Have you seen what happens to this woman when she smiles? Griffiths have mercy on her soul.
She’ll be having a high noon, as it were, with Jeremiah Cold Beans. I call him that because if one imagines him with a dust-caked bottle of moonshine and a pair of chaps – not those sorts of chaps; I left all that behind, those behinds, when I was an MP – he reminds one of a town drunk from a Clint Eastwood motion picture. The grey mule hair-like stubble and the crooked yellow teeth when he grins only add to the effect.
I was thrilled – and in a somewhat inappropriate manner that took some explaining to my wife Hortensia – when one of my other chums high up in the army said in 2015 that he and his colleagues would ‘mutiny’ if ol’ Jeremiah became PM. So we’re quite safe even if he did win. He dashed well won’t of course because he’s been too busy vomiting over portraits of Vera Lynn and going on a caravanning holiday around North Korea with Leon Trotsky. Both of those allegations are fully and wholly true, by the way. My cohorts in the media said so. Lynn and Trotsky are both still alive aren’t they? Think I heard them talking to Robert Robinson on Radio 4 the other day.
Who else is there on the ballot? They’re all so staggeringly forgettable that I’m struggling to remember. Oh, that jaunty, red-headed nitwit who’s sooo liberal he can’t seem to decide whether he hates homosexuals or not.
He’s like that middle manager you finally get to talk to after you’ve been on the phone for seven hours trying to establish why your electricity meter has inexplicably started giving you read-outs in Cantonese. No matter how much abuse people like him receive – and they should receive plenty of abuse, mark my words – they’re able to hang on to their moronic grin and keep saying, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, sir, I really am’ over and over again and sound like they mean it.
Tom Foregone is he called? If he carries on babbling claptrap like he has been, the annihilation of his party at the polls is a foregone conclusion. Here’s hoping.
The local situation’s just as abysmal.
Flickers, as we know her at the Association, has far too big a forehead to be trusted.
GVJ looks like – and has the same sort of name as – a minor character from a John Le Carré novel who quietly announces that he’s had some KGB agent knifed outside a Trabant factory in Zwickau.
As for the Labourite in Portsmouth South, I can’t remember his name or his policies but I will always remember his hairdo. Surely he’s better off in one of these contemporary musical hit parade heart-throb combos rather than in the dirty, nasty game of politics?
Penny Mordor needs to understand that wearing a racy swimsuit won’t make the great Portsmouthian public forget about her rabid, paranoid utterings on the Turks.
I could talk about some of the other candidates but, if I do, I’ll get so maudlin I’ll have to drink myself to death. And it’s only quarter past eight in the morning. Bit early for that carry-on. Hortensia normally brings me a gardener’s pail full of gin and devilled chloroform for elevenses, so let’s stick to the usual routine.
Quite simply then, reader, I ask you kindly to stay well away from the misery booths on June 8th. Place your trust in your Queen, country, elders, betters and their rubber stamps. They may be as ignorant as you are about how to run this place, but they are already running the place and, well, you’re not. That’s the way it’s been for aeons, which is the best reason I can think of for it to stay that way.
Griffiths be with you!
*May her name be praised, savoured, licked, tickled and held up to the full moon with a cackle.
**No need to mention the other parts of the United Kingdom because I hate them, as should you.
Main image by Jack Caramac.