Vote Loony!

Hello and cheese.

I would like to put it to you, and then take it out again. And then put it to you again, and then out again. And then shake it all about.

Election time is looming, rather like a tall and very hairy brown bear which has crept up on you whilst you enjoy a picnic somewhere in Eastern Europe, where they still have such things. Picnics, that is, not bears. And why, you may ask, is an election like a tall and hairy brown bear? Well, they both eat fish, for a start. And let's not forget the, er, the...

All over the country, people are shaking their fists at the telly. They are swearing at the radio. My Aunt Dorothy often chats to the pedal bin. When I was younger, I once propositioned a flipflop. None of this makes any difference though, we are still saddled with a hopeless government which continues to enrage anyone with half a brain, and a car, and a mortgage, and kids, and a desire to JUST GET ON WITH IT.

Clearly, the time for change is upon us, and so I say to you, the Great British Public, that your time has come. Vote Loony and all of this political nonsense will be cast aside as a new broom breathes fresh air, albeit brown and hairy air smelling slightly of bear, into Westminster.

We Loonys fully intend to change things. All MPs, for instance, will have to wear French Maid costumes, every other Friday. All right, a lot of them do anyway, but we'll ensure that this process is made public, in fact we'll hire an open top bus and cart the bastards around London, rain or shine.

We also wish to sort out the balance of payments. We will begin exporting beer and conkers, in vast quantities, to all the countries of the world. Proper brown beer, at cellar temperature, with no fizzy pop or lingering aftertaste of badger piss. Big conkers, shiny, tough, equal to any foreign conker. Once these exports have captured all the foreign markets, we will consolidate by exporting Daily Mail readers. No other country in the world could match our blinkered, bigotted, paranoid old farts and they'll pay good money to get their hands on them.

Well, I could go on, but frankly Mildred, I'd ruin my trousers. Just enough space to say hmm, let's stay anonymous for a while else the other parties might steal our policies. You can't trust any of them, you know. Back to brown bears again, really.

Blog Name: Fuck 'em

World Statesman of the Year. How about that, eh? Are you listening to this, Mr Nick 'I'll pay you money to vote for me' Clegg? Did you cop that, Mr David 'Oooh I went to Eton and got squiffy on fucking babycham' Cameron? Eh? EH?

I'll soon be telling the lot of 'em where to get off, oh yes. Fuck 'em all, they don't deserve me. I'm up on the world stage now, pal, and frankly my friend Barack and I got better things to do than agonise over the piddling little problems of some third world country that no one gives a toss about, not now the banks are fucked and the north sea oil's run out.

I said to my friend Barack, I said "Wouldn't it be cool if I moved out to the States and then we could meet up all the time, like for dinner and stuff, because I've got loads of really good advice to give you." Well he was so choked up he could barely speak, but eventually he said well, maybe I should try and fix my own country's problems first?

What a guy, he really wants me at his side but he's prepared to wait for me to fix the UK first. That's what I call a friend. Anyway, I was about to tell him that I really didn't give a fuck about the UK any more, what with the polls suggesting that I'm about as electable as offal, and that I've already started house hunting in LA, when the line went dead, I guess because he'd finished washing his hands and wanted to go back in to see the rest of the show.

Anyway, all I have to do is go through the motions until May then I'm outta here, off to the US of A and a new life, whooping it up as a World Statesman, going to all the best parties with my friend Barack, and as for Downing Street, I shall laugh myself fucking senseless, watching Cameron or Clegg or Uncle Tom sodding Cobley trying to salvage something out of the train wreck.

Right, best keep this under wraps for a little while longer while I carry on pretending to care. Meantime, I'm watching the LA property market and looking for a good agent who can get me a part in the next Bruce Willis movie. Hey, I'm, like, doing an Arnie in reverse! That's funny, that is. I'll put that in an email and send it to my friend Barack. He loves a good laugh, he does.

Blog Name: David Brent's Faith

Another day here at Wernham-Hogg. We do paper. That's what I like to say to my staff. It's punchy, like the stuff they say in films, like "Lock and load". That sounds good. No one knows what that means but it sounds good.

I'm not a sound bite person though, I mean, that's shallow. I'm more of a profound person. If I were to say to my staff "Right, let's lock and load!" Then I would have to follow that up. Yesterday I told Gareth that life is like a donut, which he responded to. No need to follow up, he understood my meaning. There was a moment between us, like two minds, coming together. Not that we're close, you know, in that way. Strictly professional.

Being profound can be hard work, though. When I go amongst my staff I can see on their faces that they're expecting wisdom and understanding, possibly rounded off with a belly laugh. Depends on how much time I've got. My presence amongst them is a bit like Jesus amongst his disciples. He was a carpenter so he was used to dealing with wood. Then he became a shepherd. That shows versatility. After that, he was a fisherman. Had he lived, he probably would have gone into textiles.

I often think about religion when I'm alone, in those private moments. When I have to tackle the big issues, I ask myself, 'Shall I turn away? Shall I shirk my responsibilities?' No, is the answer. John the Baptist never gave up, even as he led the people to freedom. Did he say, 'Oh, look, a big river, we'll never cross that, best turn around lads and go home again.' No, he built the ark and over they went.

If I had to sum up my faith, I would say 'I believe in a world where everyone is equal.' That's it. Equality. Even for foreigners and disabled people. I mean, just because you're in a wheelchair, that's no excuse to sit back and take it easy. I mean, I could sit in a wheelchair and get Gareth to push me round all day, but I wouldn't, and not just because other people might think we're gay, like a kind of gay couple, one of whom happens to be in a wheelchair. No, I wouldn't do that because I am equal. So I should be up and about, not loafing around.

I often say to people, 'Look up there and what do you see?' This works much better outside, otherwise you get the idiots saying 'Oh, light fittings', or maybe 'Oh, ceiling tiles,' like I've never heard that joke before. The answer should be 'Oh, the stars.' Well, exactly. If it's after sunset and it's not cloudy. You really do need to pick your moment with this one.

Anyway, enough blogging, enough 'technology'. There are problems to be solved, people needing guidance and, like the Good Lord, I only have my two hands. But then, I need nothing more. I can only be grateful that these two hands are capable of bringing me so much fulfilment.

Best keep this anonymous though. If those creeps in the computer section got hold of it they'd probably post it on you tube, like they did with that video of Gareth dressed as Rambo. You can't trust anyone these days.

Blog Name: A Soldier's Tale

I don't remember too much about the day it happened. We were riding the APV out of Sangin on a road that seemed to be mostly pot holes held together with rocks the size of footballs. Dust fogged up and turned the sky brown. We bounced along, sweating like a squashed sponge, watching the desert for any sign of the bastards but, wouldn't you know it, they saw us before we saw them, and then - bang.

The APV must have turned over several times. I saw it like a slow motion movie, tumbling kit and bodies slowly slamming into bulkheads. Shadows whirled around and then swamped me and the world went all fuzzy. No pain though. Not a thing, which was weird, considering.

After a while, I don't know how long, I saw a face looking down at me, then that disappeared. More whirling shadows, clouds chasing each other across a nightmare of a sky, then a feeling of movement, like I was drifting. More faces, quite a few this time and I'm sure I recognised some of them but they moved so fast, or maybe I was too dopy to keep up. I think some of them were trying to talk to me. I got the feeling that they were telling me it was alright now. Nothing to worry about now.

I started thinking about going home. I wanted suddenly to go home, more than anything. I wanted to see my family and my little boy and I wanted to sit back and kick my shoes off and watch TV while Sharon fussed around plumping up cushions and Kevin chucked toys across the room and then maybe crawled over and clambered onto my lap so we could curl up together on the sofa and drift off into one of those perfect sleeps where the whole world just goes away and leaves you in peace.

There were a few moments when I knew what was going on, but mostly it was a daft blur of shapes and muffled noises. The only really clear moment was much later, when everything went still and the thudding noises went away. I saw Sharon, all dressed up in her very best, and she was holding Kevin by the hand. The poor little kid looked totally lost. I couldn't hear a thing but I could see him looking up at his mum and asking the same question over and over until in the end she scooped him up and walked away, shoulders heaving.

That was a while ago. They've been back since, with my parents and a few mates. They always bring flowers. I feel like a bloody florist's shop. I like seeing them though, because when they're not there, everything blurs and fades away. It's nice though. Very peaceful, very calm, and best of all, I'm home.

Hazel Blears

In the light of recent press reports about my parliamentary allowances I wish to lay out the facts relating to the capital gains tax on my many flats in London.

I live, of course, mostly in my constituency which is in Salford, a place I love and where all the people love me. Sometimes, however, I have to spend time in London, which is where Parliament is, and so I need to have lots of flats there so that I don't have to use a great big car to travel to the place where Parliament is, which would be very wrong as it would burn petrol and thus melt all of the polar ice caps.

You see, in Parliament, which is a great big building where lots of MPs like me work, there is this thing called a 'Fees Office' which is a funny sort of place where important men in nice suits tell MPs like me how to buy lots of flats and how to get money to pay for nice things to put in the flats like televisions and lovely big beds and, obviously, some yummy food to eat. So like all MPs like me I followed their advice and had a lovely time shopping for nice things for my flats. But then the Fees Office told me I really had to name one of my flats as a 'Second Home' which I didn't understand really, and with so many to choose from I did get a bit confused and I chose first one, then another one, then I chose my house back in lovely Salford, then another flat, and oh dear I got into such a tizzy I completely forgot to pay capital gains tax when I sold one of the flats, and then again on the other one. Oops!

So there you are, silly me with a brain like a feather, I just made a few silly errors which anyone could have made but now some silly little newspaper, which is a sort of book that people print every day with pictures and words in, have tried to make me look like a sort of greedy person which is really very unfair and I can tell you that anyone back in my lovely constituancy of Salford will stand up and tell you just how honest and lovely I am.

Well, now that I've cleared all that up, it's time for me to get back to my lovely constituancy where they all love me and sort out a few repairs on my car. I'm also hoping to write another chapter of my autobiography, which is a book all about me, in which I will open my heart and reveal all sorts of wonderful things about me, plus there will also be a colouring competition and free balloons.

Well, my lovely husband did advise me to keep all this anonymous but I'm not quite sure what that means. He said something about "those homicidal scumbags back in that Salford shit hole would do us both if they found out" and I'm not quite sure what THAT means either... Still, I'm sure I'll find out eventually! Cheerio!

Blog Name: Harry Potter

Found another pimple yesterday, SOD IT. So much for Hermione's pimple-zapper potion, I might as well have washed my shoes with it.

Thoughts of the Dark Lord have been preying on my mind. No one else UNDERSTANDS what is going on in my head. I wrote a poem about it:

I am alone in a black room
the Dark Lord fills me full of gloom
He is evil personified
Like the very best food, badly fried.

I think that says it all. He (the Dark Lord) is just like a good meal - pizza or something - which has been RUINED. I mean, if you fried a pizza, that would ruin it, right? Which is what happened to Him. I mean, he started off good, like a raw pizza, but it all went wrong. It's like someone sprinkled him with really nice stuff, like ham and pineapple chunks, then fried it. I mean Him.

I tried explaining this to Ron. As usual, Ron didn't have a clue as to what I was talking about. He just said I was talking bollocks. He doesn't understand me. No one does.

Ginny is ignoring me at the moment which is SO UNFAIR. Just because I drew a willy on her "Necromancy for Dummies" book. I mean, that was MONTHS ago and she only just found it so that shows how much she reads her text books, I think. Hermione says I should apologise and I said why should I, as willys go it's a pretty good likeness and she said how would you know, are you gay or something, so now I'M not talking to HER.

Ron wasn't talking to anyone last week, but that's because a bludger whacked him in the gob and knocked all his teeth out. He had to sleep with his head in a bag of bone-gro powder which meant he was in a stinker of a mood and tried to punch me when I called him "Gappy".

Had a fight with Malfoy in the Quad, actually. It was cool, I got him in a head-lock and stuffed mud down his shirt. He elbowed me in the ribs and whacked me and gave me a black eye. Then Hermione kicked him in the nadgers and we ran for it. I like Hermione, she's well cool and she's got LETHAL boots. I just wish she'd stop going all soppy over Ron, I mean, he's a great bloke and he can make fart noises under his armpit but WHY doesn't she get herself a pet hamster or something?

Well, best not advertise this blog around the school, if that loser Snape found out I'd be in trouble AGAIN which is NOT FAIR. He is such a LOSER he floats around the place like a bad SMELL and Ron says he's only miserable all the time because he's constipated which explains that look on his face so why doesn't he drink some liquid dynamite potion and SORT IT OUT.

Blog Name: James May - and another thing...

It's a sad fact that Britain is not the country it used to be. We live in a country that is just a shadow of its former self. And who should we blame? Teenagers, that's who.

Now, I appreciate a good tune just like anyone else. I'm quite happy to tap a foot to any beat combo which knows how to get down on it. However, the recording artists of today are just a bunch of lazy yobs. They spend all day pushing cocaine up their noses, then once a month they nip into the recording studio to see if the engineer has finished programming their drum machine so that they can add the vocals. And the lyrics don't make any sense anyway, because they were written on the back of a groupie whilst having intimate relationships in the back of a stretch limo on the way to yet another dance hall where they'll spend all night pushing cocaine up their noses and then jumping up and down to unearthly howling noises known as 'acidic bungalow' music.

It is a fact that dress sense is a skill that must be learnt, and it takes time and practice before a chap can dress himself with any degree of style or flair. Clearly, this is a skill which the youth of today have all but abandoned. I often see young chaps sporting multi-coloured hair, their faces skewered by various items of cutlery, shuffling along the street in trousers that could well have been used to deliver a cubic yard of gravel from a DIY superstore. None of them own a sensible pair of shoes, preferring to encase their feet in orthopaedic boots or possibly sandals made of recycled lentils. I also weep at the sight of so many young chaps failing to grasp that on a baseball cap, the sticking-out bit goes at the front.

Cars, of course, are very important to a young chap and always have been. But whereas in my day, a chap would take a nice young girl into the country for a stroll by the river, the grunting youth of 2009 can only assemble the strength, and indeed the intelligence, to steer his plastic-encrusted monstrosity of a hatchback to the local burger shop where he meets with other like minded simpletons to eat greasy food and listen to unearthly howling noises pumping out of stereo systems that are only slightly smaller than the plastic-encrusted monstrosities that house them.

I don't like to complain, however. Teenagers, no matter how repulsive, often grow up into charming young people. Just occasionally it goes horribly wrong, and then you end up with Margaret Thatcher, or maybe Hitler, or Jeremy Clarkson. Sometimes, owing to all the greasy food, they don't grow 'up' at all, and then you get Richard Hammond. Personally, I blame the Government, which is why I started smoking pipes, so that I could prod people with them in the public bar, whilst blaming the Government. Then they banned smoking. Bastards.

I should keep this anonymous, or else Clarkson will get wind of it, and then get very annoyed because he didn't think of it and now he can't put it into another of his flaming 'best selling' potboilers about bugger all. Oh well.