To sleep perchance to dream…

No one with a House of Commons entry card has been to sleep for three days, and they are all veering about, rambling sleep-deprived nonsense and trying to buy off the Liberal Democrats.  The London Bluebird does not understand what is going on, for she is too young to know about 1974 and Ted Heath’s odd hair-do and his attempted coalition with the Liberals.  All the Bluebird knows is : got up, got out of bed, voted, spent ten hours staring at the television wanting to slap Jeremy Vine, went to bed at 2am expecting a Tory landslide.  Woke up to find fucking mayhem. Meanwhile, are we lawless?  With no Parliament?  How very exciting.

Some people are predicting that a well-hung parliament would incite Athens-style rioting.  Brilliant.  Lets go out and smash things up for a bit, otherwise these talks between Tories  / Liberals / The Exhausted Labour will go on for 47 years and we will all be dead before they can agree on nuclear policy, and Cameron and Clegg, who have now merged to form Cleggaron, will finally agree about National Insurance.  You cannot trust a man to form a government who has not been to bed for three days.  It’s unconstitutional.  Everyone looks like a nutter.  Have you see Nick Robinson’s pupils?  Blimey, talk about pupil premium; the man is caffeined to the eyeballs.  Soon politicians will be stopped in the street to ask their opinions and just burst into tears like three year olds needing a hot glass of milk and a comfort blanket.  The nation, my friends, must sleep.

First of all, someone had to explain to me that coalition was not to do with coal.  Then I asked whether in voting for the Lib Dems, I had somehow enabled a riot of Toryism.  They are able to be in a gang and rule things without us, but we are paltry, tiny, weeny people who cannot run a gang without them.  They get to play with us at breaktimes in the playground, but only if they do something about budget deficits next year, not this.  They are allowed to copy our homework and borrow our conkers but only if they are nice  about committees bartering about electoral reform.  Then we get to swap stickers and go in for double geography.  That’s it, I think. Oh, and somewhere along the way we can club together and use our pocket money to buy David Cameron a top lip.  Then our Mums can turn up to collect us (unless we are staying for Dance Club).

Then they will get mean and fling paper pellets at each other and it will all fall apart.  Someone will initiate an ink fight.  Liam Fox will end up in detention (which, frankly, is the best place for him) and be the shame of the Fifth Form.  Then, at enormous expense, we all return to the ballot box within 18 months.  At which point, a vote is a dangerous thing.  If you vote for one person, you actually end up voting for another person.  Should I just become a ballot spoiler?  One of those people who turn up filled with injustice and rage at the ballot box once every five years and write swearwords next to the candidates name?  Perhaps I’ll be one of those novelty politicians who wear rakish hats and poll 19 votes for the Raspberry Jelly Party.  Either way, I feel I cannot not vote lest the ghost of Emmeline Pankhurst returns to haunt me (Scary lady. Big Edwardian hat.  Frightening.).

The London Bluebird waits with amusement for the next installation of the Cleggaron soap opera.   Will David Sillyband Milliband be the leader of the Labour Party soon?  He’s quite good looking but has scary eyes.

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