Taking it the next logical step downwards– from drug cartel member to repressed, depressed coach driver to Member of Parliament. Why Member of Parliament? Because they’re supposed to represent us and they’ve been all over the news every day for the last 3 years but as far as I can discern not one of them has done anything remotely useful in all that time. Thankfully they don’t get paid that much. Oh, hold on…….
For the purposes of avoiding generalisation let’s say our MP is a late-middle aged, white male from a public or grammar school back ground. As far as I can tell it doesn’t really matter what party he represents these days because they really are all as bad as each other. You may also sense, deep between the lines, a feeling that I am trying to channel a vast amount of my own and many others absolute fed-uppery about everything that our political classes are currently delivering. Or rather failing to deliver. Forgive any extreme images; we really are in a sorry state.
1. You wake up. It is early. Really early. When you are a servant of the people you can’t afford the luxury of a lie in. Except at weekends. And the rather large recesses from Parliament that can vary from year to year but are very rarely less than they were the year before. The crapper the Parliament, the bigger the breaks. Of course it’s not strictly a break because you have your constituents to think about. And think about them you will; as you lie in a hammock in St Lucia, sucking on a Mojito. If you’re not technically obliged to then why bother? It’s fifty/fifty who you wake up next to this morning. If you finished yesterday early and were close to your Oxfordshire home then you’ll be greeted by your loyal wife and safe in the knowledge that your three precious children sleep soundly next door. But if you had to be involved in a ‘special’, late night ‘session’ then you probably got your secretary to book you into a grace and favour flat in Marylebone; in which case you’re most likely lying next to your ‘exotic’ lover and still have your wrists handcuffed to the head rest. All in a night’s work.
2. Like any intellectual athlete you need to warm up before you get rigorously groped by Evan Davis on Newsnight, so you get to do some morning lunges with the likes of Susanna Reid or Charlie Stayt on the deathbed of enlightened thought that is breakfast TV. It is programming like this that gives you the false hope that people might think you know what you’re talking about. Sadly, you’re only there to answer the kind of questions that even a 4 year old in a coma would find patronising; though frankly even these can be taxing today because you spent most of last night being fisted by a hermaphrodite. And as is to be expected from any modern political figure you still fail to answer simple questions like “what’s your favourite colour?” without starting “well, before I answer that I’d like to clarify 2 points, if I may”. You twat.
3. Once you’ve managed to sit in front of a camera for the best part of 30 minutes without saying anything significant and masterfully dodging any unintentionally meaningful, probing questions, like a greased-up ninja, your chauffeured Jaguar (paid for by us) drives you out for an hour in your Surrey constituency to meet the people who so foolishly voted you into a position of responsibility. Never mind, you only go there once a month, if that, and the chance to talk to kids about knives, discuss potholes with the unemployed or plant a ceremonial shrub is at least a sweet release from the sticky email you received from the Inland Revenue yesterday.
4. The Houses of Parliament. You arrive at the self-declared greatest seat of democracy in the world just before lunch, having packed as much worthwhile activity into your morning as the average media studies student. You shuffle through the hopelessly outdated corridors of power, past fizzing light switches and dripping pipes, making the usual insincere greetings and small talk before being taken aside by your flustered, long suffering secretary who tries to explain how important this afternoon’s Commons debate and vote really is. You assure her that you have considered all the options and most definitely won’t make a complete cock up of this one, before adding something about armies marching on their stomachs and then buggering off for lunch.
5. With the greatest city on earth at your doorstep, lunch is no small affair. Some days you’re lucky if you get five minutes with a latte and tuna wrap from Costa, but occasionally (and certainly no more than 4 times a week) you treat yourself to someone treating you to a lavish wet lunch in a twatty, celeb-chef restaurant with some old university friends who just happen to have leading jobs in the city or are enormously wealthy entrepreneurs. You’ll worry about what is clearly a conflict of interest as soon as a major newspaper realises that there clearly is a conflict of interest.
6. Back to the Commons and you spend your afternoon dozing off your lunch on a green leather sofa surrounded by more friends and colleagues; friends and colleagues that would happily turn on a sixpence and bury a machete in your spine just to pinch your chair near the top table. Hours of tedious back-and-forth piddle by, whether you’re debating the latest legislation on transgender prostitutes (you vote in favour of more) or one of the most divisive and controversial shit storms of any generation in memory that threatens to tear the country in two and plunge it into economic uncertainty and political isolation. You’re still not sure but suspect you’ll just vote in the most selfish and unconstructive manner possible, before proclaiming complete faith in, and loyalty to, your current (as in – for now) party leader.
7. It’s time to vote, and being a historic democracy of international repute this can’t happen without a series of utterly childish and pointless rituals occurring first. No doubt some old chap wearing tights and a wig will have to waft a big golden orb around while some other ancient prick rings a sequence of bells and reads a parchment of declarations out in ancient elvish. There may well be someone with a whip, but not the kind you’re interested in. Once you and your chums are all happy that you’ve voted with your arse instead of your head you clap each other smugly on the shoulder and swan off for a bit of dinner before your last public commitment of the day.
8. Newsnight isn’t what it used to be. Back in the days of Paxman you’d have to cover your nuts and hope for the best but now things aren’t so aggressive you can almost persuade yourself that not answering a question is an acceptable answer in itself and that being on Newsnight is no different to being on GMTV. But it is different and you are a total fucking waste of time and a disgrace to your party, your constituents, the country and even the concept of a democratic electoral process. If all the profanities and festering bile fired your way from every TV viewer could be collected and thrown at you you’d be sitting underneath a pile of dog shit the size of Everest. If you weren’t such an arrogant, self-serving, completely out-of-touch-with-reality fuckoid you’d be kneeling on the kitchen floor right now with your head stuck in the oven. Instead, like a be-suited cockroach, you’ll still be here tomorrow. And the day after. Because if there’s one truth about politics these days it’s that you can’t keep a rubbish MP from bouncing back; like a cheap rubber ball coated in treacly faeces.
9. It’s been a busy day but if there’s one thing that makes it all worthwhile it’s your loving family. Just a few stolen moments to say goodnight to your kids are worth all the stress of your day to day commitments to the people of this great nation. And you know just how proud your wife is as you tell her how much you love her and cherish all that you have together. After all, without her you’d be even less than the nothing you already become. And then once you’ve put the phone down you get back to the more important business of being strapped to a mattress and weed on by a rent boy in another grace and favour flat near Pimlico.
10. Rule Britannica and God bless our Members of Parliament! Every last fucking one of them.
G B Hewitt. 16.01.2019
I am so tired of all this shit.