Open warfare had broken out at Blogwarts, since the results of the first debate had been announced. A raiding party of Cameroons had invaded Slytherin House and debagged Mandelson, the school sneak. In retaliation, Brownite forces had captured little William Hague, and boot-blacked his head and sundry regions, then hung him upside-down in the clock tower.
A Lib-Dem suggestion that everyone fight nicely, using balloons and pillows had been ignored, after Whelan was spotted inserting breeze-blocks into the pillows.
And then — only an hour after the second debate…
Cameron had just arrived back at Blogwarts, locking his bike away safely in the darkness of the old stables, where in ages past the horses and flying pigs were kept. He sensed more than saw a movement in the shifting blackness, and before he could react an arm whipped around his neck, and he was cast violently to the ground. It was a mysterious stranger.
In the following minute another mysterious stranger threw himself upon Cameron, then another and another, until a dozen mysterious strangers were grappling with him. It was clear he was in for a ragging from these rotters.
He knew instinctively that it was Brown throttling him. But then he felt balls. Two of them. It was Ed Balls, bulgy-eyed toady of Brown, together with his hem-hem girl-friend Yvette Balls nee Cooper. He heard the voices of the two Millipedes, both Maj and Mi. Shouts came from Straw and Johnson and Bob Wigsworth. The whole gang was on him! All except Darling, who was moving house.
They began to pelt him with bread rolls, hard as iron, stolen from dinner. Cameron curled himself tight into a foetal ball. But even as he did so, other dark figures rushed from outside the stables and heaved a fusillade of rolls and rock-cakes at the attackers. Cameron heard the voices of good old Ozzie, and Hague, his head still blackened, and even the portly figure of Ken Bunter-Clarke, nibbling on a purloined Yorkshire pudding. The Shadow forces had arrived!
Hidden away in the hay-loft above, little Cleggie peered at the scene through a knothole, in an ecstasy of excitement. It had been a good evening. The debate had gone well, though in retrospect the flashing bow-tie had been a mistake. And now his devious plan to sic one lot onto the other was working! His enemies had been brought together and were currently knocking seven bells out of each other. The Clegg wet-dream was coming true, and he would be Head Boy in a fortnight.
Down below in the stable, their ammunition exhausted, the rival gangs were rolling on the floor as they grappled with each other. Competing oaths rang out. “A Future Fair for All!” gasped the Brownites. The Shadow forces shouted “We Can’t Go On Like This!”, and a lone BNP voice rasped “Take that, Rat-Face!”
In the darkness of the perimeter, the creature Mandelson held back from the fray, unwilling to commit his puny body. He had aquitted himself well last week in Blogwart’s “Strictly Come Prancing”, even though he had been unable to remember the chap’s steps and had had to go backwards all night. But this — this awful fighting! A fellow could get hurt.
But then he spotted Cameron’s back turned towards him, and oiled his way forward. It had been weeks since he had stabbed anyone, and he suddenly yearned for the taste of blood, though obviously not his own. He felt stealthily at his feet for one of his stilettos, size six. The watching Clegg gasped with glee. One mortal enemy was about to rid him of another.
Mandelson felt the juices flowing as he prepared to strike. But then his wrist, already limp, was grasped tightly by his £23,000 watch and turned aside. The stiletto fell from his nerveless fingers. It was Jeremy Vine, the Mad Maths Master, his hair awry, his eyes wild as he swore lustily in fluent algebra.
“Four pi-r cubed!” he roared as he kicked the stiletto out of reach. “Ax squared plus bx plus c equals zero!”, as he flung Mandelson carelessly into a vacant horse-trough. “E equals MC squared!” he yelled his battle cry, then waded into the fray, flailing with his swingometer, hurling bodies left and right, sometimes forgetting to close his brackets.
In the loft, Clegg misjudged his footing and stepped on a weakened board. There was a snapping sound, and with a shriek he hurtled through to land in the mass of boys below.
On the fringes of the squirming, wriggling mass, a cloaked figure stood aghast, her bosom rising and falling as school rock-cakes whizzed past her delicate ears and baby-blue eyes. Though she was urging an end to hostilities, Matron Harriet found herself becoming quite aroused at the display of so much testosterone. Goodness, she thought in sudden panic, she was becoming quite… damp. Before she knew it, her legs had turned to jelly, and she sat down with a thump upon the upturned Clegg’s face.
Neither moved for some while…
As soon as it had begun, the fight was over. Some fourteen Brownites lay helpless, pinned underneath Eric Pickles. Mandelson lay unmoving in his trough, rendered unconscious by a stray Fairy cake. Brown himself lay gasping for air, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. And the Shadows had survived. Though Hank Marvin would never be the same again.
And everyone agreed — it was a draw.