Monday, April 6, 2015

The Door


    I have my election strategy sorted.
                                           
    This time round, I’m playing my doorstep canvassers like it’s Hallowe’en.


    Remember the deal from October?

    You pudda da pumpkin in da window, you loada da sweeties in da basket — then you waida for da costoomed kiddies to show up.

    It’s fun, it’s necessary — it’s life.


    That said, the stakes are higher for a UK general election.

    Not everyone can win treats — nor even deserves to.

    Yet there will be no picking favourites by virtue of a proudly displayed pumpkin-turned-poster on my watch.

    May my front window declare that I am open to all comers, like the maw of an indiscriminately horrid demon.

    As for sweeties, hmmm
some.


    I know who’s getting my vote already, so for them,  let there be marshmallows.

    Which leaves the Also-rans and the Noes-because-Woes...



    For the Also-rans, I shall fake a series of smiles and nod my head like a bored nurse blowing breadcrumbs from a snoozing octogenarian.


    This is the UK, after all.  We’re polite.


    For the Noes, I shall reserve my pickaxe.


    When my Dad was still alive, he destroyed a brick garage with it, and when my Grandad was still alive, he would invite visiting political canvassers into his shed to chew the fat while he strangled a chicken.



    My pickaxe stands in the hallway.


    And it will be shown to those whose time has come to be shown the door.




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