Take a Shit
The poor turnout at recent elections has clearly demonstrated the low esteem in which politicians are held by voters. Expenses scandals, cash-for-questions and Plebgate are just a few of the shameful episodes that have left our elected representatives languishing at rock bottom in the public popularity polls. And if that’s not bad enough, our politicians’ selfish actions have now made life even more difficult for an unemployed 52-year-old man from Yorkshire. For, not content with merely cutting Brian Pouchforth’s benefits and upping the duty on his beloved ciggies and beer, he alleges that a series of MPs have systematically set out to wreck his 35-year marriage.
Since he was somehow identified as a floating voter, Pouchforth’s modest two-up, two-down home in the Beeston area of Leeds has been besieged by representatives from all the major political parties, so much so that it caused the breakdown of his marriage to his childhood sweetheart Bernadette. Now Brian has chosen to tell his shocking story in the slim hope that his estranged wife will read the truth about what really happened and come back to him.
Ice Cold Beer in Alex
AS RECENTLY as February of this year, Brian and his wife seemed to have found the formula for the perfect marriage. Bernadette worked 10-hour shifts on the tills at a local supermarket and did all the cooking and cleaning at home, whilst househusband Brian pitched in with the chores whenever he could find the time or was feeling well enough. But all that was about to change. It all began on the first day of the election campaign. It was a Tuesday and Tuesday night’s my night on the nest. I was supposed to be going out to do the shopping, but I’ve got one of those mysterious fatigue illnesses that prevents me from doing anything too strenuous, so I was taking it easy and lying on the sofa to conserve my energy. I was just flicking through the channels looking for Diagnosis Murder when I heard someone knock at the door. It was former SNP leader ALEX SALMOND. I was a little surprised as the Scottish Nationalists don’t usually campaign as far south of the border as Leeds. Taking advantage of my momentary confusion, Salmond barged past me into the front room, where he launched into an impassioned speech about how Scotland should become independent. He offered me a beer and I reluctantly accepted, thinking it’d make the time go quicker till he shut up and left.
Two hours and twelve cans of strong lager later, Salmond finally got down off his soapbox and asked if he could count on my vote. I said no, pointing out that his party wasn’t actually fielding a candidate in the Leeds Central constituency. After mumbling some excuse about ‘taking a wrong turning at Berwick’, the cheeky Jock handed me an invoice for all the beers I’d drunk. I had no choice but to cough up with the wife’s shopping money, but then I threw him out. Fair play to the man, he might have come closer than anyone else in 300 years to ruling an
...Taking advantage of my momentary confusion, Salmond barged past me into the front room...
independent Scotland, but I draw the line at retrospectively billing a man for a few cans. With her shopping money gone, my poor wife had to borrow some off her sister and then make an emergency evening trip to the corner shop before cooking our supper. As a result, by bedtime she was knackered and I didn’t get my oats that night after all.
Spew Labour
THROUGH no fault of his own, Pouchforth found himself in his wife’s bad books. Determined to make it up to her, the very next day he vowed to tidy up the living room a bit while she was out at work. But as he was to find out, the best laid plans often go awry, and a knock on the door from another politician blew his good intentions out of the water. Word must have got around that I was available to be canvassed, because I answered the door to find none other than former PM TONY BLAIR stood on the step grinning like a Cheshire cat. He invited himself in and started listing all the reasons I should vote Labour, going over all the points in the manifesto one by one. I tried to get rid of him, explaining that the wife had asked me to fetch in the laundry before it started raining, but he just parked himself on the sofa and kept talking, like he was at the Despatch Box.
Luckily I’d bought in a crate of cheap lager in case Salmond came back, so I broke them out in the hope that a few cans would shut him up. In a way it did; four Special Brews later, Blair went green and ran off to be sick, but he didn’t even make it to the bathroom. When he staggered back down the stairs I lost no time in chucking him out on his ear; he may have been the longest serving Labour premier in history, but he’s got a right cheek turning up unannounced and throwing up on another man’s landing carpet. And also on the top three steps. And the banister. My poor wife had to spend her evening cleaning up Blair’s vomit, fetching in the laundry from the rain, tidying the living room and finally cooking us a late meal. After all that she staggered off to bed, and I didn’t even get a goodnight kiss.
Only Making Naans for Nigel
ACCORDING to Brian, Bernadette was strangely cold towards him the next morning. Since she was facing an extra-long work shift, he offered to cook supper for when she got back. As it happened, my fatigue illness was particularly severe that day, and I couldn’t face going out to buy the ingredients for our tea. I only had enough energy to drag myself downstairs and onto the sofa to catch the end of Homes Under the Hammer. In fact the illness was so bad, I spent the whole day drifting in and out of consciousness, and before I knew it it was after 4pm and Flog It! was starting. Just at that moment, someone knocked on the door and I went to answer it; it was UKIP leader NIGEL FARAGE who said he wanted to explain why we should be leaving Europe.
I told him politely to go away because I had to start sorting out the tea for my darling wife. But Farage said not to worry about that, picked up my phone and ordered an Indian takeaway. He sat on the sofa, spouting on about immigration, Brussels and bendy bananas until the food arrived, when he suddenly remembered that he’d left his wallet at home. Not wanting to cause a scene, I ended up paying for Farage’s chicken vindaloo masala with the cash that the missus had left to buy tea with. Then, to make matters worse, the greedy politician proceeded to scoff the lot, leaving nothing but empties for when my poor wife got home. After he’d finished eating, Farage went to use the toilet. When he came back down he was a little redfaced, explaining that he had just remembered he was late for a UKIP meeting as he made his excuses and hurriedly left. When I went up to the bathroom, I found out why he had been so keen to go. The spicy food must have disagreed with him and his arse had gone off like a twelve bore shotgun. He had left the toilet in a terrible state, pebbledashing the pan, the seat and halfway up the cistern with bright orange foulage. It took forty minutes of hard scrubbing with disinfectant to get the room usable again, and by the time she was finished my poor wife barely had the energy to cook our tea, although somehow she managed it. However, the smell of Farage’s curry diarrhoea must have affected her mood, because she didn’t say a word to me all evening.
...Blair went green and ran off to be sick, but he didn’t even make it to the bathroom...
What a Pickle
THE NEXT night Bernadette had put in for an extra shift at the supermarket, working through the night re-stacking the freezers. Determined to make up for the politicians’ previous bad behaviour, Brian resolved to get up at 6 am and have a cooked breakfast ready on the table when she came in through the door. It was midnight and I was just about to go to bed when ERIC PICKLES knocked on the door and invited himself in. The roly-poly Tory minister said he was keen to talk to me about re-introducing Victorian values into British family life. I resigned myself to another political ear-bashing and invited him through to the lounge. Pickles explained that he was keen to toughen up the country’s lax pornography laws, and to show me just how bad the situation was, he grabbed the remote and flicked the TV onto the Red Hot Milfs channel.
He was just getting into his spiel when the 10-minute free view finished. Pickles insisted on getting a single night subscription to further demonstrate the seriousness of the situation. He had forgotten to bring his own credit card and I haven’t got one, so in the end we used my wife’s to pay the £5 fee to watch for the rest of the evening. We sat through a selection of obscene programmes, including Big Tit Cougars, Granny Does Dallas Carpets and Fuck My Wife While I Watch. Both the movies and Pickles’s endless political speechifying were incredibly boring and I soon drifted off to sleep there on the sofa.
The next thing I knew, it was half past six in the morning and Bernadette was coming in through the door. Pickles must have left in the early hours, and he had clearly been suffering from a bad cold because he had left gloopy tissues scattered all around the living room. Discovering that her card had been used to buy hardcore pornography was the final straw. Once she had cleared up the tissues she went straight to bed, leaving me to make my own breakfast.
Wife Saw Red Light
THROUGH no fault of his own, Brian’s relationship with his wife was on the rocks. But the death knell for his 35-year marriage was sounded the very next evening when another politician called round. Bernadette was doing the backshift so I’d got the house to myself. I was just getting ready to give the whole place a Spring clean from top to bottom, working through the night if needs be to get everything spick and span for her when she came back. However, before I had a chance to start, NICK CLEGG turned up on the doorstep. But he wasn’t alone - he had a prostitute with him. The pair came in, Clegg explaining that he was canvassing in the area to see how local residents felt about the introduction of European-style regulation of the sex industry. He had brought along a working girl with him to answer any questions that voters had about the implementation of licensed brothels and designated red light districts. We’d only just started chatting when Clegg’s mobile phone went off. It was Vince Cable, calling him back to the local LibDem headquarters to look at some leaflets. He said he’d be back within an hour and left me to chat on the sofa with Roxxy.
We’d been talking about the Liberal manifesto for about ten minutes when the door suddenly opened and my wife came in; apparently the supermarket had sent everybody home early due to a power cut.
She just stood in the doorway, staring at the two of us on the sofa in horror. It had been an unseasonably hot evening and Roxxy had taken several items of clothing off, and so had I. Bernadette refused to listen to my perfectly reasonable explanation. She put two and two together to make five and threw me out on my arse.
Since the break-up of his marriage, Brian has been reduced to sleeping on the sofa at a friend’s house. However, in the three weeks he has been there he has continued to be pestered by a series of high profile politicians, who have wet themselves on the sofa, left turds on the bathroom floor and stolen underwear from his friend’s teenage daughter’s bedroom. When we spoke to him, he had this plea to any MPs considering canvassing his support: “Just leave me alone. I’m not even on the Electoral Register.”
...Clegg turned up on the doorstep. But he wasn’t alone - he had a prostitute with him...