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The biggest trade union for politicians, the NBMU (National Bullshit Merchants Union), has announced that a ballot of its members has called for strike action over pay, claiming that many of them need second and third jobs, some as far away from home as the Caribbean, the Cayman Islands and Belize to make ends meet.
Purdey Shotte-Gunne, a shop steward for the NBMU, told Newsbiscuit that his colleagues frequently worked well into the night, propping up the Commons bars, where he said, the main business of parliament was conducted.
“People don’t realise how important the bars and restaurants are to running the country. Forget all the boring stuff that goes on in the Chamber which gets watched on the Parliament channel. That never changed a parliamentarian’s opinion. A knee in the bollocks after ten pints of Olde and Filthye does that.”
He went on to say that many times he’s longed to leave early enough to enjoy a horse meat lasagne with his children, like normal people do, but when there’s a late night sitting to vote on cutting Universal Credit, he has to make do with foie gras and prime rib in the Commons canteen. “It’s the little things like this that not only make the job a misery and why the subsidised restaurants are no compensation at all.”
Image: Pixabay/ChequeredLink
I’m speaking with one of the MPs for the new Tabula Rasa Party.
“After a while we realised that all we wanted was power”, he said. “We don’t really have a plan for it once we get in – other than personal enrichment of course!” He chuckles merrily to himself, sighs, sees I’m still here and continues.
“What’s it all about, really? Labour has done as much to help billionaires as anybody. The Conservatives rant about immigrants but the stats speak for themselves – they’re the party of mass immigration. ‘Whatever gets you elected’ – that’s the new policy. Same as the old policy.
“The name was Jacob’s idea. He’s Latin mad. Or just mad, hard to say. You can project anything onto a tabula rasa - social justice? That’s us. Anti-immigration? Tick. Pro-immigration? Tick”.
“Like a high-class whore?” I ask. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be?”
“Exactly! Boris wanted us to call it Madam Johnson’s Exotic Massage Parlour but he was voted down”.
I ask about the next election – who will oppose them?
“Ah, that’s the beauty! We’ve agreed a deal with the press barons, so they know we’ll stay loyal. At least Murdoch has some plans for Britain – we should probably just put him in charge and let the rest of us have a big holiday.
“The Beeb’s been tamed. Who should we fear? Greens? Just make jokes about them knitting their own yoghurt and point out that they smell. LibDems? They’re even blanker than us! God knows what they stand for. In Scotland we have work to do, but it’s irrelevant once we have the other seats”.
“Why did you enter politics?” I ask. He frowns. It seems an indelicate question, like asking a priest about wanking.
“You want to know if I had a vocation?”
I nod, a little sheepishly.
“I’ve always liked the sound of my own voice, that’s a start. I never really fitted in – at school, at university, at work. I was always a bit strange. We all are. And I couldn’t think what I wanted to do with my life. I know what you’re thinking – why not become a teacher? I suppose a girls’ school would have had its compensations, but they don’t really exist, do they? No, this is the life for me. Cheap booze, expenses, no accountability, plenty of interns and Uncle Ivan’s terribly generous”.
So that’s the future of British politics. Like the frantic assembly at the beginning of a stage play – actors milling about, speaking gibberish, waiting for the play to start and everything to start making sense. Except it never does. Just a stage filled with actors but no lines, no play, no message or heart. A performance by zombies for a captive audience. Maybe Boris had the right idea after all. At least an exotic massage parlour can give you a happy ending.
Image: geralt | Pixabay
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