As a political animal, I’m a somewhat contradictory beast: I believe in the democratic expression of the will of the people, but I also believe (much, much more strongly) in the brutal and merciless oppression of dissenting voices. I mean getting all Anne Frank is one thing, but if you think I’d rather be holed up in an attic with only my lecherous family and a pen for company, rather than sat around in a well-tailored uniform eating sausage off a whore’s shins, then you’re an imbecile. But politics isn’t all about establishing thousand-year empires and cutting off the hands and feet of striking nurses; sometimes it’s about a superman (ie. me) rising through the dregs of society (ie. you) to claim their rightful place as leader of the people. With this megalomaniacal obsession firmly in mind, I recently decided to run as a candidate in the local elections.
Standing as an independent – a tense assignation in a pub in Oldham nearly resulted in me running for the BNP, but in the end I just impregnated Nick Griffin’s hideous wife and walked away – I stood on a simple ticket that consisted of a few clear policies: ban people under 35 from the streets between the hours of 6am and 11pm, forcibly repatriate all Australians, legalise female nudity, and shut down the spastics school (too much noise). I campaigned long and hard in my local area, going from door to door and meeting as many of my potential constituents as possible – an eye-opening experience, as most of the local population seemed to consist of bald sunburnt men in football shirts and vast Asian families. I shook the hands of old people (revolting), charmed local businessmen (at night, mainly, in the front seat of their Audis round the back of the train station – and always wearing a lacy glove) and even kissed some babies (on the mouth, which initiated a load of silly police inquiries). Alas, it was not enough; on the day itself I polled just 11 votes, and the returning officer confided in me afterwards that 9 of those were probably some of the local benders mistaking me for the pro-Aids candidate Screaming Lord Gay. My dabble with democracy had come to an ignominious end.
As with all my other amazing adventures, however, I have come away from this having learnt some valuable lessons: democracy doesn’t work, bringing a photocopier-salesman called Derek to a vote-securing climax is very difficult if you are both crying, and there needs to be some urgent action regarding the overcrowding of the Patel family at No. 16. If I can’t be voted in I will retire to my flat to sit silently, inhumanly patient, awaiting the day when I take my rightful place as Emperor of the World.