Friday 21 November 2014

You won't like him when he's angry

Well, it’s been a torrid time for Ed Miliband of late. A mini rebellion in his own ranks, Bacon-sandwich Gate, being twatted every week at PMQs, his every policy ridiculed, his every appearance hooted at and a minor celebrity picking apart his tax stance in one embarrassing exchange. It must be time for yet another relaunch and yet another round of get-tough sound bites for the popular media. But a mild-mannered man can only take so much, so, on hearing of the collapse of the Labour vote in the by-election and with Emily-racist-Thornberry's resignation, today was the last straw.

He stormed home to Primrose Hill and in a manner approved by pickup artist Julien Blanc gripped Justine by the throat and demanded “Why? Why me? Who is responsible for my party being decimated, demoralised and ground into dust?” Justine, choking, gasped, “It’s Ed Balls. He’s been briefing against you!” Ed stormed out of the house and demanded his chauffeur take him to the Balls household. Throwing open the door, Ed walked straight past a distraught Yvette Cooper and over to the piano where he placed Ed Balls in a stranglehold and demanded, “Was it you?” Arms flailing, Ed struggled free and pleaded, “No, no, it wasn’t me… it might have been Harriet.”

Before Mr & Mrs Cooper could say another word, Ed turned on his heel, his anger burning bright in his red cheeks and he stormed off to scour the children’s playgrounds, paediatric wings and orphan’s homes for the errant Deputy Leader. Eventually, still furious, he found her contemplating a PIE and immediately launched into a tirade of abuse as she backed away into the corner. “How fucking dare you, you bitch!” he screamed at her, his normal reserve buried deep beneath wave after wave of volcanic fury. As he reached for her throat Harriet managed to shriek, “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t any of us! We even had a hashtag, #WeBackEd

“Who then?” demanded Ed “Who is behind all this?” The variously battered and bruised shadow cabinet slowly came together and after a few minutes decided at whose door to lay the blame for all the Labour Party’s recent troubles. “We believe,” ventured Oily Umunna, “we believe the root of all this evil is…” He paused. “Well, come on,” said Ed, “spit it out, man!” Chuka looked at his feet as he mumbled, “Nigel Farage.” The room fell silent.

“Right,” said Ed, “I’ll have the fucker. I’ll rip off his head and shit down his neck. I’ll use his knackers for door knockers. I’ll tear him a new arse, rip his guts apart and stamp on his still-beating heart while eating his kidneys. That nasty racist nut job won’t know what’s hit him!” And with that he strode out, jumped into his car and commanded the driver to head for Rochester. Arriving in town it was the work of a few minutes to track the source of revelry down to the pub nearest the campaign headquarters.

Ed marched up to the doors, threw them open wide and stepped into the party. Boozy, red-faced ‘Kippers suddenly stopped as they felt the cool breeze and stared into the stormy face of the Labour Party leader. Silence, into which Ed boomed, “Bring me Farage!” A whisper went round and quickly fell silent again as a tweed-jacketed figure in mustard corduroys turned around from the bar. “Wotcha!” he said and raised his glass.

“Are you Farage?” asked Ed, “Are you the man who has demoralised my party and laid waste my vote? Are you the man responsible for the total collapse of morale in Labour and the near demise of this once great movement as a political force? Are you the man who has ridiculed me and made a mockery of the Miliband name?” he demanded. Nigel took a drag of his cigarette, flicked the butt to the ground and casually trod on it. “Yes, old boy, I believe I may very well be. What can I do for you?” He held out a hand to shake.

Ed's game face

Ed straightened up to his full height, carefully centred the knot on his tie, smoothed down the rumpled front of his shirt and strode purposefully forward until he stood a mere foot away from Farage. Ignoring the proffered hand and taking a deep, calm, measured breath he looked straight into Nigel’s eyes and said, “Well, could you just stop it, please?”

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