Before I explain my ingenious plan to fix Britain, it should be understood that I am not claiming to be any kind of politico. My love for Andrew Marr is based mainly around his collection of pink shirts and his ability to nail the
gazing-ponderously-into-the-distance time filler rather than for his political
mind. Then again, I am tuned in enough to know about Andrew Marr and his shirts. So when I say that I think David Cameron is slimey, the risk that I took that ‘fish in a condom’ comparison too much to heart is present, but minimal. My dislike is not completely unfounded: I am a student who thinks badgers are cute – and if the future for students under the coalition looks less than peachy, things are looking considerably worse for badgers. Mr Cameron is therefore very, very low on the list to invite to my fantasy cocktail party. I would rather spend my evening with an actual fish in a condom than with the Prime Minister, and I am a latex-hating vegetarian. (Tim Walker, Aragorn, Stevie Nicks, Bridget Jones, David Attenborough and Hugh Grant will be too dazzled by my wit, charm, and skill as a hostess to miss him though, obviously.)
Not that I wish to share canapés with Ed Miliband or Nick Clegg either. If David is a fish then Ed comes across with all the charisma of a flaccid piece of seaweed:
I was listening to him clash with Cameron on Prime Minister’s Questions a
couple of weeks ago and even though I agreed with him, he spoke so badly that I
found myself accidentally cheering on the PM. And as for Nick, I just had one
of those mind-blank moments where I genuinely could not remember his name,
which says it all really. To stick with my sushi-themed government analogy,
Nick is the rice: an essential ingredient – for the fish to sit on.
Anyway, having condemned the three main party leaders to a life of soy sauce, we are now left with the task of finding less soggy replacements. Britain needs a
Prime Minister who we can respect; someone who is not too pally with the
press; someone who is intelligent, compassionate, and attractive. (Yes, it is
important that we have a fanciable leader. Crucial, even. We are a shallow
nation. We do not respect ugliness – Gordon Brown is a case in point.) Basically,
we need Hugh Grant.
Hugh John Mungo Grant was born in 1960. He is an Oxbridge graduate. He has two middle names, one of which is Mungo. He could not be more quintessentially British. He has a soothing voice. He helped to expose phone-hacking. He knows the correct use of the word ‘sycophant’. His dirty laundry has been aired already. He is extremely fanciable. And he had a nice practice run in Love Actually.
Did anyone from the UK manage to watch the scene where Grant verbally kicks the President’s arse without wishing that Hugh actually (har har) was our Prime Minister? “We may be a small country, but we’re a great one, too. The country of Shakespeare, Churchill, the Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter. David
Beckham’s right foot. David Beckham’s left foot, come to that.” You are
probably now experiencing a strange feeling. No, you are not ill: it is just
the embarrassment leaving your British soul. Pride is rushing into your heart
in an alarming manner, as you forget all about slavery, Ireland, and the crisis in the Middle East.
En route to purchase Union Jack bunting you will suddenly remember that Love
Actually is just a film. When you are done sobbing into your handkerchief and have made a consolatory cup of tea, you should watch this: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-14052690. And then you should start making campaign banners. Now, where did I put my marker pen?