The book of Jez 5

It was amazing to think how much had changed in the year since Jez’s first elevation to the leader’s chair. His enemies were scattered in confusion. The first triumph was ..... triumphant but now, having been rudely dethroned by his enemies, he was back, elected for the second time with an even larger majority. The ranks of nay-sayers, closet Tories, pinkoes and Blairites were in despair. They threw everything against Jez not once, but twice. The members, swelled by massed ranks of entryists, Tory running dogs and registered hangers-on, carried him to victory a second time. Halleluia, truly the future was Jez’s. Who now remembered the Lady Yvette, the upstart Burnham, and the arch-Tory Kendall? They were forgotten, languishing in obscurity on the BBC sofas and the Daily Politics show. A new generation of rebels came after them, Eagle and Smith (who?). They were dispatched even more emphatically than the first lot. Jez reigned supreme. Look on my works ye mighty ...... While Jez battled with his rebels the Tory caravan rolled on. Dave, who a mere few months ago stood at the despatch box and urged Jez, “for God’s sake man go”, vanished up his own rear end in a flash. His replacement, Mother Theresa and the Tory Blind Mice struggled to maintain a calm outward appearance while, out of sight in the tea rooms, they sharpened their daggers and plotted furiously against each other. There had been some tiresome bother about a referendum, some fuss about Europe, of little interest to Jez. Jez delivered a short speech on the subject, then stood aloof from the fray and let the capitalists plot their own downfall. Let them have rope to hang themselves! The Tory press were in a state of high excitement about single market access and WTO tariffs but Jez had higher concerns, issues of real importance in real people’s lives, like multi-cultural lesbian single mother craft workshops, hand-woven hemp trousers and anti-fracking yogic levitation. Meanwhile, lurking in the undergrowth, a dark presence from the past hauled itself into a hideous form. The portly figure reclining in a chair in the make-up room was unrecognisable as the once proud holder of high office, privy counsellor and shadow chancellor in Her Majesty’s loyal opposition. A make-up person brushed his features with vomit-green paint while a hairdresser slapped a handful of greasy dye onto his wispy locks and a manicurist polished his varnished fingernails. Ed hauled himself from the chair and lumbered into the dancing studio while a breathless nation waited to see him making a complete fool of himself. The judges awarded him even lower marks than the electorate who booted him out at the last election. Ed sweated and gasped for air as the music rose to a crescendo and he waited for the public vote. All over England Tory MP’s, councillors and party hacks rushed to their phones to call in multiple votes for Ed. Their frantic efforts were soon rewarded. The judges groaned at the prospect of another week of Ed slobbering around the dance floor. The cunning Tories were at it again. They would keep Ed dancing as long as possible, anything to keep him distracted, away from Westminster. They were perfectly happy to see Jez gazing wistfully into space while massed ranks of entryist-Trotskyist-Blairites sat in grim silence, with gritted teeth, behind him. The Tories wanted nothing to interfere with Jez’s and his enemies’ prospects of stewing on the opposition benches, for many long wasted years to come.


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