It’s clear that British politicians are just like the rest: arrogant, self-seeking, egocentric money-grabbing bastards of the first magnitude.
It’s time for a change.
To be successful, we need to dispense with certain tenets. The first is that politicians are either thick or out of touch. They’re not. Thick-skinned, certainly, but out of touch? They’re about as out of touch as a banker putting on his zoot suit and spats for a night on the tiles with his annual bonus cheque tucked safely into his wallet. Every move they make is designed to ensure that those moves don’t affect them or the wealthy drones who feed them.
It’s obvious then, that the ballot box will change nothing. You will simply replace one gang of wankers with another. The only way forward is revolution.
My research demonstrated, however, that the most successful British rebellion ever was the public stand against canned beer at football grounds in 1966. Said Charlie Cossingworth, leader of the boycott, “We’re hosting the bleeding World Cup, for God’s sake. What’ll the rest of world think if we try hitting them in the face with a tin can instead of a bottle? Our reputation as hooligans will be well shot.”
In 21st century Britain, we simply do not have the balls that the people of Egypt have demonstrated. The closest we come to rebellion is going “tsk” and switching over to BBC1 to avoid an excess of cleavage on Emmerdale, then switching back for Motorways Cops when the cleavage appears in Eastenders.
We cannot, therefore, rely upon the people. We need more underhand methods. Fortunately, as well as being a world authority on everything from politics to pontificating, sex to surreality, marriage to marmalade, I am also the foremost expert on genetic engineering. It’s true. I engineered the first wife’s knickers off long before we were married and constructed no less than four kids in the process (although we were manacled together by the time the first arrived.) Producing a revolutionary genome that would rule the world would be child’s play by comparison.
It was another kind of nome that gave me the hint. Gordon the Gnome. Gordon sits on our back windowsill keeping an eye on the geraniums and scaring off the cats. I was walking the dog round the back garden one day, when Gordon said, “You need a new pork pie.”
Because we were passing the lupins when he said it, I automatically assumed it was the crocuses that had spoken and I promptly asked, “What do you know about pork pies?”
“They don’t know nothing,” Gordon said. “They don’t even have the brains to get in out of the rain.”
Realising it was Gordon talking, I pointed out, “Neither do you.”
“That’s only cos I’m too small to get off this bloody windowsill,” he retorted. “Now lemme tell you, the only way you will overthrow the democratically elected government of this country is via a genetically engineered pork pie. I know. We did it in Gnomeland long before you were born.”
“You were genetically engineering pork pies back in the 40s?” I asked.
“The 1840s,” he corrected. “Course, we called it pixie magic, but it comes to the same thing. Change the pork pie, you change the world.”
I decided Gordon was right. After all, even the most influential and stinking rich Tory cannot resist the temptation of two pies, even if he does prefer to have his brown sauce served from a gravy boat instead of the HP bottle.
The first experiments were not a success. Crossing a prime growler with an onion bahji was the worst move I’d made since I switched from the Jolly Carter to the Rose & Crown to save tuppence a pint.
Back to the drawing board I went.
Crossing a Piggeries Prime Pie with a Wensleymead Cheese & Onion met with some success, but the breed would not procreate in captivity. I had to set them free, let them roam the highways and by-ways of Saddleworth Moor where to this day they still seek the front window of Bert Bassingthwaite’s butcher’s shop.
Third time lucky.
It was by cross-fertilising the humble growler with a fresh McDuff’s Cornish Pasty from Dumfries that I finally succeeded. The hybrid grew and bred to the point were Her Indoors and me were having a McPiesty for tea every night: sometimes with chips (or fries as Americans and anyone under 40 calls them.)
Best of all, the McPiesty produces an insane euphoria leading to total abandonment and overwhelming feelings of charity. It’s a dangerous cocktail. Even I succumbed. I put fifty pee in the chugger’s collecting tin outside Tesco’s and I left a 40 watt bulb burning all night. What’s more, I felt good about it.
There are some side-effects. An expanding waistline for one. But Her Indoors and yours truly were already ahead of the game in that department before we began the McPiesty diet.
The McPiesty is also highly addictive. One bite and you’re hooked. The only way off the fix is literally cold turkey … without stuffing. Three weeks on Bernard Matthews’ best and you’re back to normal.
We had a tame politician in captivity and we tested the McPiesty on him. Within a week, he had donated his entire £1.3 million pension fund to The Dog Trust, used his Parliamentary expenses to sponsor a workable solution to the Third World problems, and handed over his £800,000 country mansion as a refuge for the unemployed. And he didn’t give a shit.
Proof then, that the way forward for this country lies not in seeking the good in those who are essentially greedy, but by feeding them the McPiesty and changing them forever.
The McPiesty: coming to a politician near you very soon.