And the children of Blair were fruitful, and increased abundantly, and multiplied, and waxed exceeding mighty; and the land was filled with them. They were known henceforth as the Blairites.

Now there arose up a new king over Europe, his name be Juncker.

And the Europeans made the children of Blair to serve with rigour. And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage, high interest, and no hovels, and in all manner of service in the field: all their service, wherein they made them serve, was with rigour.

And there went a man into the house of Levi, and bought a pair of 501s. And the woman of that house thought he looked hot. And begat him a son that she giveth the name Corbynoses.

And the child Corbynoses was raised in the house of the Elite. And mightily educated. And was served upon him a sense of entitlement to high office. Him and his global warming fanatic of a brother.

And it came to pass in process of time, that the children of Blair sighed by reason of the bondage, and they cried, and their cry came up unto the Pharaoh Cameron by reason of his tribe being riven by the same discontent and besides the bastard son of the 16th pint, by name Farage, was raising a mighty aggressive tribe in the north east.

Now Corbynoses kept the flock of Momentum: and he led the flock to the backside of democracy, which was a mighty new experience for most of them, being as how they were used to settling weighty matters such as who would represent the tribe of Salford over a pie and a pint and ‘what’s it got to do with the bloody electorate’? Thus did Becky Bullshit inherit the safe seat of Salford.

And the Pharaoh Cameron did spake to all the tribes, yes, even the tribe of Momentum. And he asked of them whether to give homage to King Juncker who burdened them so wearily, or whether to chuck their hand in.

And Corbynoses looked this way and that way, and when he thought he could see which way the sand was blowing, he did vote for or against the Europeans?

And when he went out the second day, behold, two men of the Blairites strove together: and he said to him that he did the wrong, Howfore votest thou thy fellow? And he said, Who made thee a prince and a judge over us? intendest thou to double-cross me, as thou double-crossed the Blairites?

Thus did half of them say ‘Yeay’ and half ‘Nay’ and half of the half that did say ‘Nay’ thought they had said ‘Nay’ unto King Juncker, and half of the half that said ‘Yeay’ thought they had said ‘Yeay’ to chucking their hand in but it turned out they had said ‘yeay’ to more burdensome weariness from Juncker – and there was much renting of breasts, mostly each others, with whatever came to hand.

And in revenge did the hand of the Almighty did smote a mighty hole in the A1, closing the entrance to the temple of Mammon known as Metrocentre, causing mighty delays to the purchase of Nike trainers, hair extensions, and tattoos, causing many to doubt the wisdom of casting their vote.

And the firstborns did blame the elders, and the elders pointed out that muchness of the firstborns and the secondborns and even the bloody thirdborns had gone off to Glastonbury with Brother Aaron Watson to drink cans of the blood of Thatcher and hark to the caterwauling of Adele, Goddess of Five Fucks in a Single Sentence.

But Corbynoses fled from the argument, and dwelt in the land of Momentum: and there he heard only voices that echoed his own.

And the Blairites looked to Corbynoses for guidance but he was in Islington Market buying another vest. When the words did come, he spake thus: I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast last bothered to spake unto thy : but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.

And when Corbynoses spake at last, seth he ‘Hark, I shall slaughter a Blairite each hour for the next 46 hours, until not a single Blairite walks upon this sand, and if they refuse to worship me, I will smite all their constituencies with the children of of the tribe of Momentum. And the Thames shall bring forth Momentumites abundantly, which shall go up and come into thine house, and into thy bedchamber, and upon thy bed, and into the house of thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thine ovens, and into thy feeding troughs. Never again shall ye send in an expenses claim to IPSA.

And the voices in Corbynoses’ head spake unto him: Go forth to the land of Woolwich, find ye the Ed Stone that has been abandoned there; Observe thou that which I command thee that day: drive out before thee the Bennite, and the Eagleites, and the Falconerite, and the de Pieroite, and the Nandyite, and the Bergerite.

Take ye the rump of your Labour party; raise them up to undreamt of heights; take the economic sage Becky Bullshit, sit her in the great office of Gordon Brown, and Alistair Darling, give her a copy of the Which Guide to Savings, and stand ye before the British Public and announce that this is how you intend to run the national whelk stall in future, should you be granted the keys to the kingdom.

And it came to pass that in one thousand seven hundred and eighty five years, a meteorite struck the land and Corbynoses still hadn’t been given the keys to the kingdom.

Dear God, Boris might be a joke, but there are worse jokes…

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Ms Raccoon apologises for her absence and thanks you all for your measured and good tempered debate. Nobody in moderation – must be the only site that can say that over the past week.

I had my twentieth PET scan last Tuesday. Nineteen we could cope with, but twenty was just one too many for the old girl – you can only radiate a Raccoon so many times. I have spent the past week clinging to the underside of my duvet for increasing hours each day. I have never felt so bloody ill since this cancer business started.

Mr G has lifted a corner of the duvet at regular intervals, imparting messages like ’15 of the shadow cabinet gone’; ‘nope 26’; ‘Cameron’s resigned’; ‘make that 39’; and I honestly didn’t care. The most extraordinary week in politics and I couldn’t work up the energy to write a thing.

Sorry about that. Back to normal tomorrow.

Regards,

Vertical Raccoon.