I thought I’d do a topical, politically aware one to mark the mayoral elections in my glorious home-city. Enjoy.
Boris Johnson, the recently re-elected Mayor of London town/posh, plump Worzel Gummidge in an ill-fitting suit: not only a reason to be single, but also a reason to seriously consider lifelong celibacy. The man is evidence of the fact that listening to our raging sex-hormones does not lead to anything good.
Particularly when voting.
Don’t get me wrong my lovelies I can see the attraction – as I’m sure all free-spirited, red-blooded heterosexual women can. A chunky, custard-haired toff who is skilled in both wit and buffoonery and who could afford to pay for various fair-trade diamond jewels is always a good option for a short-term fling. I admit that he would certainly win the ‘shag’ title in almost any round of ‘shag, marry or die’.
For any doubters as to his sexual prowess, I would like to point out that Boris comes under the category my mate Danielle once called ‘men you would consider sucking off in a car park’ (also includes: Ian Hislop – except that you could also conceive of taking little Ian to meet your Nan in Essex, at a later date, after he’d left his wife and children to set up home with you. Ian is the kind of guy who’d be socially aware enough to remember to compliment your Nan on her Argos china ware collection, which is my ultimate litmus test when considering long-term attachment to a posh person).
Certainly, on the sexual attraction -o-meter, Boris beats the po-faced newt-loving Ken who, alright, might have insightful ideas about tedious but important issues – such as rent-control, which would allow Londoners on an average wage to afford to both live and eat in their homes – but who definitely wouldn’t be able to tell a good post-coital joke to ease the tension after an awkward one night stand.
However, women of London (I am blaming you and your collective ovaries’ oestrogen-pumping for the election result), just because you would contemplate giving someone head behind the bins at Morrisons there is no reason to tick the teeny box on the ballot slip with their name beside it. No good can come of this. We cannot have our London being run by someone who’s full name includes the words ‘de Pfeffel’ and who could afford to buy their offspring a stable full of horses staffed by giggling, golden pixies. They will be wholly incapable of understanding the plight of the average Londoner. They will therefore introduce baffling policies that incite anger and violence. They will cause us to squirt cartons of tangy apple juice into the laps of innocent bus drivers in frustration when we realise that the adult single cash-fare has risen from 60p to £2.20 in a few short years, and we’re late for a meeting, and we only have a tenner, and TFL no longer permit change to be carried by their drivers.
Think of the children.
Last summer, bored out of their I.Q-boxes and wide-eyed with consumerism that had waltzed into their minds wearing shimmering, ruby encrusted trainers from adverts on the telly, the adolescents and children of London rioted. And I blame Boris. In Boris’s London there is one key policy change that has made being a young person 100% less fabulous than it was a decade or so ago. Ironically, this most significant of changes is one of those Boris appears most proud of. The prohibition of alcohol on public transport. I will use this example to illustrate my point.
As anyone who grew up in London – who didn’t have a house with live-in staff and ice cream coloured unicorns – will know this action was essentially a covert War on Youth. In my own adolescence, as in today’s London, there were few youth activity centres that didn’t make you do sports or forbid smoking skunk weed out the back. I didn’t have much money at my disposal, certainly not enough for say, return bus fare and a cinema visit with popcorn and a large coke. Although (unlike the youth of today, who subsist in a non-existent employment market), I was fortunate enough to have a job – wearing a sexy delicious tightfitting shiny black polyester skirt and serving wine to sleazy, gropy Royal Artillery officers in the mess at the local barracks – that paid the princely sum of £2.10 per hour. My own salary, such as it was, added to the salaries and pocket money of my friends afforded me and my mates the weekly ability to purchase a one day travel card each, four-for-a-fiver deal cases of lime 20/20, 10 B&H gold and a couple of bottles of Lambrini. Because we had nowhere else to go we’d take our rattling blue carrier bag of exotic and forbidden delights, get on the 422 or the 180, climb the stairs, sit up the back and have a massive party.
Often, we’d be joined by other friends, or strangers. Sometimes the strangers could M.C and so they would do funny freestyle flows about their gritty, urban lives while we bopped our heads and let the bubbles from the Lambrini do fizzy love-pops in the soft mush inside our brains. It was an arrangement entirely without flaw. We were safe and warm and dry and having good old fashioned fun. The bus company would turn a blind eye to the smoking, drinking and debauchery by not sending any authority figures to patrol the buses after 7 PM. And other passengers didn’t mind because there was an unspoken agreement that if you had to travel on the bus in the evening, and were over the age of 22 or under the age of 14, you sat downstairs (one would never have staged a weekend bus-party on a single decker bus). When we wanted to do a sick, we would get off in an abandoned town center, do it in the fountain, sit on the bench for a bit until our head stopped being a swirling vortex and then get the bus back home. It was all very civilised and it operated under the radar of ‘official policy’.
Then a posh person came along, with no knowledge of the workings of the transport of the people, and ballsed it all up. Now the children have nowhere to go and nothing to do, and they might get arrested if they have a drink from a bottle of Smirnoff ice or puff on a bifta on the 180 with their mates on a Friday night. Especially if they’re black.
No wonder the rioting.
So, single ladies. What I am demanding is that you must now, immediately, remove your sex organs. Shake from your silvery brain-fur any thoughts of the ways in which men who should be repulsive are actually a little bit arousing. And vote using only logic and reason.
Do it for the children.