Friday, 20 December 2013
It’s Christmas time and everybody is having a ball. Throughout the land tidings of great joy are ringing out as even bitter enemies embrace and wish each other a wonderful life. Even in the seat of power, in Parliament itself, coalition and opposition party members are breaking open bottles of seasonal cheer and slapping each other on the back as they prepare for the break and a welcome few days alone with their families. But somebody is missing.
A lone figure sits high above the Thames on the roof of the Palace of Westminster, sobbing quietly and staring down at the cold waters below. After a few minutes he stands and wobbles uncertainly towards the edge. He is a little drunk, but right now sobriety is charging in like a train. He pulls back his shoulders, lifts his head and stares straight ahead as he puts one foot on the low parapet and makes to step up; up and off.
But suddenly a large figure appears beside him and places a gentle, yet firm hand on his shoulder to restrain him. “Oh ho no, son!” he boomed. The younger man took a step back and turned to find a burly gentleman in a red suit trimmed with luxurious white fur to match an impressive full set of bushy, white whiskers. A broad black belt circled his ample tummy and a broad smile brought forth laughter lines around his twinkly eyes. “Father Christmas!” he gasped, “is it really you?”
“Sit down son” said the jolly old man “and tell me what this is all about. And you can call me Santa.”
The pair sat down and gazed out over the Christmas lit spectacle of the capital. The younger man sighed and began his tale…
“My name is Ed Miliband…” He paused as if that was explanation enough, but as Santa remained silent he continued. “It’s all gone so wrong. My job should be easy, opposing the nasty, vile, vicious Tories, with their baby-killing policies and hatred of the poor, but it turns out that people actually approve of what they are doing to the welfare state. Everywhere I turn I think I’m going to find somebody ready to stab me in the back. And every week I have to face up to the coalition bully boys at PMQs; I leave the chamber in tears. I’m a failure and everybody knows it!”
Santa got to his feet and Ed turned round to gaze up at him. “Who am I?” he said.
“Why, you’re Fathe… you’re Santa!” said Ed
“Then you must know I can grant wishes on Christmas Eve!” he laughed. “Come on son, with one wave of my hand I can make everything better. What if I said you will wake up tomorrow with all your troubles gone? What if I said you will go from strength to strength next year and storm to victory in 2015, going on to become one of the nation’s best loved Prime Ministers?”
“Oh, could you?” said Ed, “Would you?”
“Ho ho ho, of course I will!” laughed Santa, “But you must do me a favour in return.” And with that Santa unzipped his trousers and pulled out his tinsel-bedecked penis. “A quick blow job and all your wishes will be granted.”
Ed balked at first then gingerly took hold of Santa, shut his eyes and proceeded to suck off Saint Nick. When Santa was finished and tucked away and Ed had swallowed the lot, the two of them faced each other to say farewell. “Merry Christmas!” said Santa. And “Merry Christmas to you.” Said Ed.
“So now, I can go home for Christmas and in the New Year, when Parliament reconvenes, everybody will respect me and listen to what I have to say? And I’ll go on to win the General Election in 2015? And together with me Labour will make Britain better?”
“How old are you?” asked Santa.
“I’m 43” said Ed.
“Forty-three?” asked Santa. Then he pulled off his beard to reveal the gurning face of Ed McCluskey. “And you still believe in Father Christmas?”