Remember that far-off day, back in 1997? You couldn’t stop thinking about her, all that surface charm, the smooth talking, the promises. It all seemed great at first — all those great times you were going to have together…
And that wonderful night when she suddenly put her hand on your voting card, and told you, that you — yes, YOU– were the one. Just like that, right out of the blue. Maybe you were drunk or something. Anyway, when you woke up, your vote was in her handbag, and she’d hit the ground running.
For a while it was all right. For a while she was whiter than white. But then you started to see beneath the glam of the sequins, the glitzy smile, the frank and honest gaze. You began to see the promises for what they were — just pretty bubbles, bright-coloured dreams, to keep you quiet while she spent your money. And you began to wonder whether you really were the one.
And recently — well, it’s all seemed a bit samey. Like she didn’t even notice you any more, just kept going her own way, doing what she wanted and you could sod off.
She made you stand in the garden when you wanted a fag, in all weathers. But tobacco was alright for little Bernie Ecclestone, when he came sniffing round. And she kept nagging you about what you drink, what you eat. Nothing was ever right any more. Your life wasn’t your own.
Then your vision cleared and you saw her for what she was — just a mad cow, full of mad cow ideas, trying to rule the roost. Next thing she’d be wanting you to leave all your money to her when you die.
But just this week — you can hardly admit it to yourself, but — she’s taking money from someone else. For doing “favours”. Offering herself for money, for five grand a pop. On the game. And now of course, all of a sudden, she’s nice as pie, now she’s been found out. Can’t do enough for you , whispering in your ear that you’re Mr Wonderful.
Well, you’ve heard it all before.
So –decision time. Do you go for the full divorce and shack up with the gorgeous, pouting Davida, with the pink shining face and the pink shining policies? Or stick with the grasping, venal grumpy-guts you’ve become used to over the years, the one who sold all your gold jewelry, and make the best of it?
Not that there aren’t other options. There’s that LibDem woman down the road, Nicky
Something, giving you the nod, tipping you the wink. Hinting that she wouldn’t be keeping her hand on her ha’penny, nudge-nudge, wink-wink.
Or what about that bird down at the Griffin — the one with the Union Jack knickers? Okay, granted, rough trade, but a change is as good as a rest, even if it is built on the lines of a steam roller.
But you know in your heart of hearts — it’ll only be different for a while. In the end they’re all the same… only interested in you for one thing.
And once they’ve got what they want…