June 5, 2009

Yesterday - chin gurn - I had the pleasure of meeting a fine man called Fred, who before I became Prime Minister was a smackhead in Glasgow. Now, he is an international banking chairman who believes in good governance and the Presbytarian philosophy. He believes in the Labour party and everything it stands for. I firmly predict this upstanding example of all things Me will become a Lord one day.

The day before - manic veneered teeth grin - I humbly listened to school children thank me for everything I had done for their hard-working single parents, the tax credits that had brought sunshine into their lives, and the minimum wage their appreciative parents were now able to live on when they're not in prison for shoplifting food.

Two days ago - chin gurn, sudden frown, grin again, serious face - I gathered my cabinet together and asked them how much, exactly, to the very last hard-earned by hard-working people penny, did they love me? My working eye glistened with a genuine crocodile vinegar tear when they cooed, as one: "Not at all, Gordon. We think you're a cunt." I was overwhelmed at how their unbridled devotion had left them so disarmed and unable to express their bubbling, fevered contentment.

Gurn

A week before, I had the pleasure of being introduced to a one-legged former soldier who told me how grateful he had been to be sent to war ill-equipped and without any sound reason. "You, sir," said this man of stature, "are useless." By which he meant, as I hear all around the country from hard-working families, that he wants me to carry on solving everything everywhere so magnificently (apart from America, where any problems people may be experiencing all started).

And just an hour ago of this fine British meridian- wave hands very very seriously like Blair - my telephone rang here in Number Ten and it was Barack Obama his very self on the other end. "David?" he asked, to both of our shared and sincere merriment. Oh how we laughed. Mr O'Brama and I are very much on the same wavelength. He says "tomato", I say "prudence".

On my way here to my bunker, where the public absolutely wants me to avoid anything contentious and get on with the job of avoiding everything, I passed a long queue at the local Job Centre "Plus" (and can you just see what I did there? I'm allowing myself a little Scottish chuckle, with a gurn in between). Imagine my beaming heart, just to know how many people in this glorious country are so determined to investigate how much time and effort I have put into making these exceptional centres ones of excellence. They have water fountains and everything, you know. But that sheer endeavour, that very enthusiasm, to praise my vision and indeed actually queue for it, makes me proud to be Scottish with free prescriptions for me and my clan.

I also passed the town hall. To see thousands of £30,000 a year Labour-tied bodies bursting out of the windows, fat on nothing, pensions guaranteed, while the bins in the streets across the road were left overflowing, greeted me with an unequivocable adrenalin rush: Because what the public clearly wants, what the people desire, is for me to unilaterally decide what's good for them. They know it's best if I carry on, and I humbly, meekly and absolutely accept their silent praise.

I concluded, with the sober and sombre reflection that only comes if you are the son of a manse, that though my hair gets ever greasier and greyer by the day, and my jowls are now resembling those of my great and fine friend John Prescott, that I am blessed with the anointment of a nation that wakes each morning with the mantra: "God, is he still in power?" To which I contentedly answer: "Yes, I verily am, in a humble and Scottish and determined manner."

God bless Donald and his troosers.

And don't forget - a vote for me is a vote for the Conservative Party.