The Party: The Final Show

The Prominent Party Member awoke from his avaricious slumber in a state of expectation and excitement. A new day, a new dawn, a new era. An era that would begin – and end – with him as Leader. Leader! The word itself brought a slight tremor to his throat; it held unknown possibilities, unknown pleasures. The reserved parking space at Party HQ, the lucrative hampers with Selfridges’ compliments, and the even more lucrative business dinners that would guarantee him a small island on which to retire (the PPM was considering Cuba) and a first-class escort with an IQ smaller than her waist. After this exhausting slog of speeches and being driven around to various council estates in order to hob-nob with the natives, it was only right that his efforts should be rewarded. Today would be the final push to reach the summit of stardom and second homes; following this broadcast, the ardent Party supporters would cast their votes, and fall on bended knee before him. He would be revered and praised for raising his country out of the ashes scattered by the Other Party, and across the country the hoi polloi would be weeping in gratitude before the compulsory oil painting that would be displayed in every home. Even in the homes of his arse-sniffing, communist-loving adversaries. That would teach them a thing or two.

Arriving at the television studios, the PPM’s arse-sniffing, communist-loving rivals looked significantly worse-for-wear than the PPM himself. They did not have the family funds with which to support their campaigns, or the influence upon the Bank of England, or the willingness to buy thousands of hats for their supporters. It was fair that he should win, after all, for he had put the most money (but not necessarily the most effort) into his campaign. This wealth radiated out from his sunken face like a beacon; it attracted voters like moths to a light. Dyed hair, kerching! Subtle fake tan, kerching! Expensive tailored suit, kerching! The common man would be unable to understand the money behind those bleached teeth, but to fellow members of the new aristocracy, this unprecedented spending on his image only meant one thing – that the PPM was counting down the minutes until he was announced Leader.

And the minutes were flowing away. Helped by his friends in high places – and the fact that he was sleeping with one of the debate’s hosts – the PPM breezed his way through the ‘heated’ and ‘feisty’ show, dodging questions and making unkind remarks about his adversaries. But what else would one expect? The art of politics is one of appearances, and damn, did the PPM look good. He looked good, sounded good, and had just the right amount of suppressed sexual urge to appeal to the middle-aged woman who fancied herself a ‘vixen’ and whose deepest desire was to appear in Fifty Shades. The audience was full of these vixens; batting their veined eyelids at him and overwhelming his nostrils with fifty shades of musk.

Damn – he had spent too long attempting to impress the small number of intellectuals in the crowd, and now his time was up. These intellectuals were evidently displeased with his views on immigration and compulsory vasectomies for men who had fathered more than three children. On the other hand, however the women were going crazy. As he was showered with roses, M & S multi-pack multi-usage control knickers and the odd DD-cup bra, the PPM was satisfied that he had appealed to those who really had the power. The curtain fell, and the final lap had begun.

The PPM’s tremendous excess of money had helped. After all, he wasn’t really running the race – he was just floating along on wads of cash and an Etonian education. Being Party Leader was his birthright.


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