The May 2015 elections, we are constantly told, will be the most important in decades, with Britain’s relationship with Europe, the divide between rich and poor and perhaps even British identity hanging in the balance. Good thing we have so many great leaders to steer us through difficult times…
“Greetings… There… Hard working young human female! Today is voting day, and I am David Verribland, leader of the Hard-Workers Party, and normal… man… of the people! Might I ask which way you will vote?”
Kelly stifled a sigh as she made her way to the polling station. She had thought to get there earlier, avoiding the vote-seeking politicians from the four main parties who’d be out in force in this hotly contested seat. But given the choice of extra sleep or being harassed by a pale, middle-aged, middle-class white man of average height and below average common sense, she chose the former.
“Haven’t decided yet, sorry,” she muttered, as she dashed past him.
Come on. Come on. Only a few hundred metres to the polling station door and it would all be over, even if she had no idea who to vote for when she got there.
If only she’d worn trainers; perhaps that would have gotten her through her ordeal quicker. But alas, out stepped another pale, middle-aged, middle-class white man of average height and below average common sense.
“What ho, young filly! I am David Le-Same. Don’t listen to old blandy over there with his crap! Vote for the Strivers-Not-Skivers Party and put an end to his ghastly nonsense! Look how weird he is! Look how out of touch! I bet he was friends with Jimmy Saville! And if you do vote for Strivers, would you like to join my Cabinet? I need more women and you’re the first I’ve seen since I stopped breastfeeding!”
Verribland squeaked with outrage. “Just another piece of self-serving elitism from… Mr… Le-Same! As the voice of the common, ordinary man on the street, dude, I condemn your shallow photo-op politics conducted for the media’s benefit!”
It looked as if he had planned to say more, but he had to rush off to have his photo taken with someone eating a pasty. But Le-Same had scented blood, and chased after him shouting brutal insults.
“Haw haw! Look at his teeth! They’re not even! And he looks weird! Weird face! Weird face! Haw haw!”
Well, at least it meant Kelly could escape. Just a few metres from the polling station a howl of pure human anguish caught her by surprise. Was a child in pain? Had someone lost a limb? No, a pale, middle-aged, middle-class white man of average height and below average common sense sat sobbing in the street, surrounded by a drunken mob of men jeering.
Kelly wasn’t sure what she could do to help, but she was certainly going to try before they killed him. But as she got closer, she couldn’t help noticing how strange their taunts were.
The palest and most drunk of the men shouted, “You Brussels kissing traitor! Why are you having us throw good English fish back in the sea? It’s all a conspiracy to make us eat frogs legs instead, isn’t it? Go drink a litre of beer. British pints are just not good enough for you anymore, aren’t they?”
And all the while, their victim just kept repeating over and over, “I’m sorry. I apologise if you felt I didn’t maintain the standards you expected…”
Kelly recognised him well enough now: it was David Yewtern, owner of the hard-earned title of least popular politician in Britain, and head of the Yes-We-Agree Party.
Knowing this, she was half-tempted to turn away and let the thugs continue tormenting him but when they started to kick his head in she had to intervene.
“Oi! Just ‘cos he’s a pillock, doesn’t mean you have to be. Leave him alone!”
The abuse briefly subsided as Kelly pushed past one lout to help Yewtern up.
“Thank you. I like your position. Will you form a coalition with me?”
“Pervert!”
She punched him, prompting much cheering.
“Ahaaha! Fine work there, but I don’t think he meant anything by it. Not much change there, eh?” said the gang leader. “I’m afraid he just says that to everyone. Watch this: hey, You-turn, you’re a wanker!”
“I agree with your position on that. Will you form a coalition with me? And my name is pronounced Yet-ern-e, it’s Belgian.”
“Booo! Booo!” cried the drunks but their leader calmed them down by promising to pay for the next round down at their favourite local pub, the Clown and Fruitcake.
“Enough about this sad case. I’m David Deloon, that’s an old English name, in case you were wondering, and I represent the Send-‘Em-Back Party, the voice of the real British people who aren’t secret Bulgarians and don’t live in Bongo Bongo Land! And these fine gentlemen are my shadow cabinet, the most diverse of any political party!”
Surprisingly, this turned out to be true, as amongst the sea of white drunken racists there was one black drunken racist, which put them one step ahead of the other parties.
“We’d like to count on your vote today, just so long as you’re not a slut, that is,” said Deloon.
“Umm, I’ll think about it,” said Kelly. With that she ran to the polling station, uncomfortable shoes be dammed, ignoring Le-Same and Verribland calling each other paedophile-philes and Deloon promising to bomb France as soon as he was elected. Yewtern agreed with them all.
Kelly supposed she had learned something useful today from these pale, middle-aged, middle-class white men of average height and below average common sense.
Before she got here she had no idea about politics, but now she knew exactly who best represented her interests.
[X] None of the above
You can buy Jamie Robertson’s humorous science fiction novel, Star Crusher from amazon.
