I’m speaking with one of the MPs for the new Tabula Rasa Party.
“After a while we realised that all we wanted was power”, he said. “We don’t really have a plan for it once we get in – other than personal enrichment of course!” He chuckles merrily to himself, sighs, sees I’m still here and continues.
“What’s it all about, really? Labour has done as much to help billionaires as anybody. The Conservatives rant about immigrants but the stats speak for themselves – they’re the party of mass immigration. ‘Whatever gets you elected’ – that’s the new policy. Same as the old policy.
“The name was Jacob’s idea. He’s Latin mad. Or just mad, hard to say. You can project anything onto a tabula rasa - social justice? That’s us. Anti-immigration? Tick. Pro-immigration? Tick”.
“Like a high-class whore?” I ask. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be?”
“Exactly! Boris wanted us to call it Madam Johnson’s Exotic Massage Parlour but he was voted down”.
I ask about the next election – who will oppose them?
“Ah, that’s the beauty! We’ve agreed a deal with the press barons, so they know we’ll stay loyal. At least Murdoch has some plans for Britain – we should probably just put him in charge and let the rest of us have a big holiday.
“The Beeb’s been tamed. Who should we fear? Greens? Just make jokes about them knitting their own yoghurt and point out that they smell. LibDems? They’re even blanker than us! God knows what they stand for. In Scotland we have work to do, but it’s irrelevant once we have the other seats”.
“Why did you enter politics?” I ask. He frowns. It seems an indelicate question, like asking a priest about wanking.
“You want to know if I had a vocation?”
I nod, a little sheepishly.
“I’ve always liked the sound of my own voice, that’s a start. I never really fitted in – at school, at university, at work. I was always a bit strange. We all are. And I couldn’t think what I wanted to do with my life. I know what you’re thinking – why not become a teacher? I suppose a girls’ school would have had its compensations, but they don’t really exist, do they? No, this is the life for me. Cheap booze, expenses, no accountability, plenty of interns and Uncle Ivan’s terribly generous”.
So that’s the future of British politics. Like the frantic assembly at the beginning of a stage play – actors milling about, speaking gibberish, waiting for the play to start and everything to start making sense. Except it never does. Just a stage filled with actors but no lines, no play, no message or heart. A performance by zombies for a captive audience. Maybe Boris had the right idea after all. At least an exotic massage parlour can give you a happy ending.
Image: geralt | Pixabay