Seal-up the Billy Ballot!
By Swith
Since leaving his role of conservative party leader, Billy Hague found it hard to stay away from the corridors of power to which he had dedicated his life. So he applied for, and won, the job of the House of Commons recreation room manager. Once again he could be within the beating heart of Westminster. These are excerpts from his much sought after diary (soon to be subject to a dramatisation on BBC4).
Sunday, May 1 st 2005
19h30
I could tell something was bothering Tony today. For the first time in months he was playing Sega Rally on his own. In his little seated booth I could see he felt vulnerable, alone, like a premature baby in an incubator. Of course, Peter Mandleson was nearby, doing the gears for him as usual.
Tony soon mastered the wheel spin technique
The atmosphere in the House of Commons Rumpus room was highly charged on the run-up to the election, and this was only Sunday. Even my apprentice, Iain Duncan Smith, was noticing the effect of the atmosphere of uncertainty in the House. He was still mopping up pools of Prescott’s sweat off the dance platform when I left. At least it keeps him busy and not thinking about girls.
Weary now, I locked up the tuck shop and bar, switched off all the arcade machines and returned the abandoned pool cues to the rack. Thus another All-Party shin-dig had drawn to a close, and it was time for me to hop back on the 272.
Monday May 2 nd 2005
10h00
Today I thought that the MPs’ post-breakfast common-room recess would never end. I’ve completely sold out of Chuppa Chups, and little IDS is still asleep in his basket after having had a funny turn last night (brought on by all the sweat he’d needed to mop). I’ll give him another five minutes in there, twitching his little paws and mumbling. I wonder what he’s dreaming about. Canvassing probably. Seeing his eyes flicker behind his lids as he sleeps reminds me of the glory days when David Blunkett would run Tetris tournaments during elevenses. DB used to stand there like a statue while almost being part of the machine – listening for the near-inaudible sounds of individual liquid crystals in the dot matrix screen bursting on and off. He made his moves and took down opponents with clinical precision. He played by intuition, the tetrad numbers fell, that blind Home Secretary sure played a mean Tet-ris game.
He played by sense of smell
16h30
I’ve just had to separate Blunkett and Prescott from a rather unpleasant fisticuffs match. I thought I’d be fine leaving them with Donkey Konga for five minutes, but when I returned with Prescott’s liver and onion milkshake, Blunkett was rhythmically pounding on JP’s man-breasts having confused them for the Bongos. Again. I’ve sent IDS out with the fluid bucket. At least it keeps his mind of girls.
Tuesday May 3 rd 2005
09h00
Well that’s one mystery I can close the case-book on - that smell coming from out of our Pac-Land machine now has an identified source: I decided to get to the bottom of this once and for all, and opened up the machine only to find what was left of the decomposed corpse of Robin Cook all lying in a pool of inky, rotted flesh. I can only assume he was trying to do his ‘Look at me, I’m back in the cabinet!’ routine again. I’ve had Iain mop that up while I re-arranged the bags of peanuts so as not to expose the minge of the bountiful young lady featured on the back of the display card.
13h00
Arthur Scargill was up here again after lunch, supping his bottle of Mars Milk and boasting to Michael Howard how he had inspired the writers of Manic Miner. That Michael Howard will believe anything. I became aware of the sensation that my tired wrist was beginning to sink into my chin, when the sweet fragrance of Anne Widdecombe captured my senses and awoke my carnal beast within.
Most Heavenly Beauty
She is a magnificent specimen: hair like a World War Two ARP Wardens’ helmet, and a face that could launch a thousand pamphlets. The way she grasped the yoke of the Afterburner cab made my thoughts turn to brutish things. I nearly poked poor little IDS in the ear with my extended passion as he scoured the floor behind the bar. At least it stopped the boy thinking about girls. Ye gods but how I’d love to impose my local agenda on that proud, powerful woman. Still, two days to go until the general election, I was sure that my penis and its issue were the furthest things from her present thoughts. It’s a shame that the same couldn’t be said of IDS.
Wednesday May 4 th 2005
11h30
I’ve never known the common room to be so quiet, yet so full. Even Charley Kennedy had a drink here as soon as the bar opened, and he never partakes – I can only assume he needed to calm his nerves. I did notice him raise a tortured smile however when he saw Gordon Brown’s model NHS system – he’s always been a fan of Theme Hospital but no-one had ever made the connection between making patients scurry in straight lines, turning only at sharp right angles and the more efficient running of medical care centres. I hope he has more success with this than Red Kens’ attempt to model the ideal structure of London with SimCity on his SNES.
The boy Duncan Smith and I.
21h00
Another late-close at the Rumpus Room tonight. I’m just glad that I can provide a place for all my old parliamentary chums to hang out and forget all about the pressures of the forthcoming elections.
It kicked off again though, very much as usual, when Tony accused Charlie Kennedy of hiding the bottles of WKD. Tony said he knew that Charlie had them, because Tony’s friend George who runs ‘Bush’s Barmy Bargain Beers’ (our local off-license) sold them to him. The funny thing was that George didn’t admit to that, instead choosing to cite various other times when Charlie had got tipsy in an attempt to back up Tony’s case.
In the end they settled the matter over a game of Desert Strike on the Mega Drive. No-one won, but it made everyone trust each other just a little bit less. For the first time in living history, Charlie walked home through the park instead of taking a taxi. Alistair Campbell told him that wasn’t a particularly good idea after trying to disprove the existence of ill-gotten WKD’s, but he’d made his decision.
Thursday May 5 th 2005
10h40
Silence - the Rumpus Room is empty. IDS came in late so I’ve had him mop the backs of the plastic horses on our Final Furlong machine.
No one has seen Charlie Kennedy today, which is worrying.
Today the public will cast their vote and make up their minds on who they want to lead us over the next years of government, but until then I have to run a common room for a whole lot of very important people.
I spotted Gordon Brown and Oliver Letwin having a brief co-op session on Forgotten Worlds, but there was some disagreement over whether the Zennies should be spent on fire-power or shields. I could only hope that the decision would come quickly, and put us all out of the misery of the cruel anticipation. The unpleasant atmosphere was temporarily lifted when the vision of fe-fe-fe-female beauty that is Nurse Gladys Widdecombe wafted past me again.
I’ll love to stick my vote in her ballot box and force a majority.
May 2005
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