And so my search for power is over. After years of blood, sweat and tears - I gave the blood - the game is up for The Clear Blue Water party. I really thought this election would be our breakthrough. I thought that this morning I would be waving at you all from Number 10 - hopefully with a little floozie under my arm. Instead of which I find myself within touching distance of poverty and Cement Woman, quite literally between a rock and a hard place. I thought we had so much to give. So much spite disguised as policies. I didn't want the Conservatives to have it all their own way here. We had a veritable plethora of ideas. Knee deep in them we were. Except for the environment, which entirely in line with the other parties, we couldn't give a monkey's about. Bring on the warming, we say, we're bloody freezing! Anyway, we wanted to concentrate on the important areas. We would have banned credit cards from the Five Items or Less Express Checkouts. The ones that only attract those with credit cards - the bill being less than a tenner - who then ask for cash back and a top-up. I'd have given them a top-up all right. Ours would have been a brutal, but deeply amusing, regime. Free beer at the point of purchase. Women banned from football matches. Free bacon butties for everyone. Who could have offered more? Vegetarians would have been force fed - and you would have been invited to watch. We were the only party that would have guaranteed a genuine improvement in our public services. Wheelie bins would have been twice as big, and emptied twice a week. We would have cut your lawns. Weeded your gardens. Creosoted your fences. "How could you guarantee all this?," I hear you ask, in that strange little voice you have. Tinny. That's your voice. Irritatingly tinny. Easy. By a national personality profiling programme. We would have made everyone fill out a questionnaire - the aim of which would to be able to classify his or her personality. We would have then told the Introverts with Low Self Esteem to start emptying bins and the like in their neighbourhood, all for no pay. Clearly, they're unlikely to be happy, but are they going to argue? Of course not, they wouldn't say boo to a goose. In fact at Easter, we'd have hired geese, just to test the theory, and ensure we were mistreating the right people. We would have been in clover. We had our strategy spot on. We researched our name. Paul Dixon, in one of his lucid moments (which it has to be said are becoming rarer these days - I blame Newcastle United myself), came up with an interesting theory. In his own words: "The name I've thought of cunningly combines elements of the names of the three main parties, and also spells out in clear terms what we are about. The name is `CONUALL' and contains the first three letters of `Conservative,' the U from `Labour,' which is symptomatic of the way they have dropped any other pretence of being a Labour party, and finally the ALL from Liberal which is prophetic of the way they are all over the place. "There you have it, three parties' names stolen and a title that is brutal in its honesty." Brilliant, I thought. It beat our previous favourite, `None Of The Above,' which we thought would have captured so many votes had it been on the voting slips. But it's about being in the right place at the right time. And I was sure the election was next Thursday, the 12th. I put a ring around it on the calendar. I'd done everything I could. So imagine my horror when I woke up to see the adults going into the schools. Initially I didn't think anything of it. I mean, the kids do look so much older these days. As my hangover cleared, the Polling Station signs came into focus. I'm full of hate - confirmation politics was my natural home. Back instead to my mid-life crisis masquerading as a personality. Pip Pip. ********** Kings of the rulers Recently we've been considering what men and women want. Men being from Jupiter whilst women like Mars bars. Men seem, unsurprisingly, to be simple folk. We like barbecues and rulers. Barbecues, as we know, bring out the caveman, even in an accountant, but not in the PR professional. There is absolutely no caveman there. Try it. Go and punch the next person you meet from the PR world. I guarantee they won't fight back. Don't try aggression with any of the female PR professionals, however, as they tend to be common women who fight most weekends. Barbecues mean fire, and danger, and are therefore no place for women. Men like fire. Men like danger. Men like barbecues. Heap much. And we also like rulers, a handy little stocking filler idea for you ladies, hanging back from the barbecue area. There's good girls. Men love measuring things. And rulers are, quite simply, tailor-made for the job. We never grow out of the joy of measuring. It's a source of pleasure, and shame. And, again, danger is ever present. Those metal measurers which retract at frightening speeds are a real danger, and almost completely irresistible. They are responsible for more injuries in the home than all the rest put together, I reckon. Tell me your rib tickling measuring tales. ********** Raining on my parade And finally, many thanks go to those I despise most of all - the weather forecasters. I like politicians more, that's how low our weather folk are. They have one purpose. To tell us what the weather is going to be tomorrow. You or I could give it a go by looking out of the window. Our weather experts are knee deep in equipment. With which they told me North Yorkshire would have a fine and dandy bank holiday. They were spectacularly incorrect, and I hope they all get piles. | 
