“Like he said, if he keeps failing he will go.”
“Even though he has clearly lost the confidence of his team?”
“But he won the vote. That’s democracy I’m afraid.”
“But he has a 55% share of the vote!”
“Nobody said democracy was always fair.”
I was losing track of who we were talking about. Thanx Marx I was a revolutionary socialist and so never had to worry about the liberal bourgeois boycotts of goods and services. I mean for a start, the quantities of Earl Grey I can get into my Sports Direct mug are just about the only thing that keeps me going in these Dickensian Hard Times.
We were having a post-summer get-together with the Deputy Leader’s team. Before you say it — I don’t mean John the Baptist, I mean the other John; Dr John Watson. His team always insists on playing weird music during our meet-ups. When we declined to meet both in Strangers and the Sports and Social — we ended up opting for JC’s broom cupboard as Sean Miller — our Director of non-Portland Communications and PR (Proletariat Relations) was busy hosting a journalists’ luncheon. It’s funny, I didn’t recognise any of them — and I worried Sean felt as Angela Eagle did at her campaign launch — only to find that Sean didn’t invite any Murdoch puppets, just a few chaps from Limonka.
And so Winter was coming and we were bashing out some strategy with Dr Watson’s stooges. It was a tight squeeze it has to be said — but then the Book of John is always telling us to bond with our sworn enemies and what better way than six people sharing a cosy broom cupboard?
I valiantly offered to help Kate make the tea, though I have to confess dear diary — I’ve never actually made a cup before. There’s never enough time you see, with all the strategy discussions there are to be had — and besides, there’s always someone who offers first.
JC couldn’t make it in today. Something about going through some Excel Spreadsheets with some Party Officials. It was taking longer than it should have done seeing as JC refuses to print anything, plus he’s not yet got round to updating Windows 95 so it keeps crashing.
“So” — Kate began, pouring the tea after my failed attempts as she gingerly found some space to sit upon an upturned bucket — ”What are we doing about the closing of women’s refuges?”
“We could refer that to the Women’s Advisory Fairy Board?” The work experience chap from Winchester College suggested enthusiastically.
“Great idea James” — Kate replied. “Let’s delegate any lady issues to the ladies.”
I can never tell when she is being serious. But then it’s like Finchy and Oweny Smithy say, how can you be a sexist when your mum is one?
I was suddenly distracted by a cleaner interrupting our highly confidential meeting. JC doesn’t let us eat anything with any packaging, nor use napkins, so there were quite a few spillages that needed cleaning up, (particularly tea).
“Hel-lo!” I uttered in broken English to put her at ease, as I extended my hand to greet her, before realising she would probably prefer a peck on the cheek. I leaned in and she drew-back looking a little confused. I felt Watson’s cronies on me and fear I turned the colour of the Communist Manifesto — (Soz E.L. James, I’m stealing all your best lines).
I pointed to myself — “My name is…” but was interrupted by a coughing fit from Kate — I turned to see her wiping her mouth with JC’s notes from PMQs. “You ok comrade?” I asked, before turning back to my new cleaner friend who oddly enough had vanished.
“Do you think she gets the national living wage?” I mused.
“I would hope so” — Kate replied — “Why don’t you investigate?”
“Does the national living wage count as a single market comrade?” One of Deputy Dr Watson’s Deputy’s Deputies sneered.
“Or shall we consult the Book of John?”
It was beginning to get a little awkward — and I’ve seen JC stand with members of the Shadow Cabinet “rallying for Europe.”
(I think Vladz is still giving Sean the silent treatment — Sean blames JC entirely for the rally even though it is clearly all the fault of Dr Watson and all his fellow Blairites).
It’s unfair really — people saying JC didn’t pull his weight in referendum. I counted at least 20 meetings in his diary on TTIP alone.
We had to wrap the meeting up early. Turns out JC and John the Baptist had done a Burgess and Maclean and crept away into the night to see The Artist Taxi Driver. They had just apparently called for another tax boycott — but this time of Education taxes until the Government backed-out of new Grammar Schools.
We were well on our way to undoing the damage New Labour inflated spending had done to Britain.
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