How I'd do the election

“I’m not coming, and that’s the end of it”, said Mavis, folding her arms obstinately. “Look, I know you like politics, but I’ve never really been interested in it since the Battle Royale act of 2016- look, why don’t you take one of your friends from work?”

After getting off the bus at North Greenwich station, I met Adrian, who I had arranged to go with to the election. We stepped into the cavernous maw of the escalator tunnel and watched as the outside was slowly reduced to a letterbox of light. Adrian asked: “Who are you betting on?” I responded, “ I don’t know, I’m just here to watch”. There was a harsh screech of brakes as the train came to a clattering halt. I heard a smug hiss as the doors pulled to. We boarded the train, trying to squeeze ourselves amongst commuters who were packed as tight as sardines in a tin. The train began slowly accelerating, forcing everyone back, compacting them even further.  Adrian shouted over the noise “ Never gets any more pleasant does it?”. I sighed and grunted agreement. I was thrown forwards again as the train decelerated, almost being knocked off my feet.  The doors swung open, and  a flood of humanity poured out of the train, almost sweeping me and Adrian along with it! After disentangling myself from Adrian,  we ran for seats ,completely ignoring the pregnant woman, standing weakly, looking as though she was about to collapse.

Four stops later, we arrived safe and sound at Westminster station. Emerging, blinking from the tunnels, we saw a big sign stating: All spectators for the election, above a large arrow pointing downwards, towards a small service door There was a significant resistance in the doors hinges, implying that they hadn’t been used in a long time.  An unsmiling and tight-lipped flunky in a colourless suit gestured us towards a gunmetal arch, with a conveyer belt next to it.  We put our bags onto the conveyer, which slowly rolled our bags into a large box. We were gestured again through the arch. It did not react to Adrian’s passage, but made a loud and angry beeping noise when I attempted to pass. Adrian laughed and pointed to my belt.  ‘That was stupid of me…’ I thought. I passed back through the arch, having passed the belt to the flunky, who held  the belt in a grip that could have crushed steel and waved me through again. Mercifully, the machine didn’t react. I was thankful he didn’t have to search me, and judging by the noises from the next room, I should be very glad indeed that he didn’t. We retrieved our bags and were lead away.

We were ushered down a nondescript corridor, decorated in the 1950s institutional style, with plenty of polystyrene ceiling tiles and mangy, grey carpet. We arrived in the garden, where a haphazard portable stage had been put up, surrounded by scaffolding, upon which rows of seats were placed. We began to climb the rickety looking stairs- the creaks that the beams gave off were not at all comforting. Our seats were very well placed, very close to the front and with good views of all of the contestants.

In the red corner, Ed Miliband stood, looking very worried, In the blue corner David Cameron stood, looking calm and collected, next to him, in the yellow corner, Nick Clegg looked nervously at Cameron, waiting for him to make a decision. In the green, the Green party representative stood, wringing her hands and shouting incoherently about fracking. Lastly, Nigel Farage stood, standing, looking totally relaxed in his waxed jacket,  a pint glass in his hand. He casually took a pull of his beer, and grinned. Littered across the gunmetal pentagon of the arena, a variety of weapons lay, ranging from bottles through to firearms.

The Tannoy burst into life. The tinny, screechy voice shouted: “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the election! FIGHT!” In one smooth movement, David Cameron leapt at Clegg, his legs releasing all of their coiled energy in one movement, grabbing Clegg and pulling him off the stage. He was mercifully outside of my field of vision, but judging by the wild agonised screams, coming from Clegg, I didn’t want to see… Meanwhile, Ed Miliband and the Green Party seemed to have formed a coalition. The Green Party representative had grabbed a bottle of gin, and seemed to be trying to wield it like a cutlass in Farage’s general direction. He laughed and made a dash to the side, his hands falling upon the dark brown wood of a shotgun butt. The green Party representative realized what he was doing too late, and she only had time for her eyes to widen in shock, before her head disappeared, only to be replaced by a fine red mist. Farage grinned and turned around, to be greeted by the site of Miliband wielding a monkey wrench, Farage dodged to the side- too late, and the wrench collided with his arm with a sickening crunch. Farage shouted in pain, but was able to hit Miliband in the nose with the butt of his gun. There was a crunch, and Miliband crumpled to the ground, grasping his face and thrashing in agony for a few seconds, before he lay still.

Cameron popped his head out from the lip of the Arena, his forehead beaded in sweat. Farage grinned a ghoulish grin before cradling the butt of his gun in his good arm, took aim and fired at Cameron. The blast blew him back off the stage.  Farage dropped his (now empty shotgun) and stood, smiling weakly, his left arm hanging t an angle at which no arm had a right to hang. Suddenly, his face deformed into a mask of shock and pain, and he fell to his knees, grasping at his chest!. His chest distorted for a second, before a fat lump of blubber roared from the gap. It was Nick Griffin!  He shrieked an ear-piercing shriek before swallowing Farage’s body whole. Under the rules, Griffin was a contestant, and, being the last man standing, he logically was the winner by default.  I thought ‘If we let Griffin into power, we’re all doomed’ I had to do something.

I leapt onto the stage, grabbing a spear from the ground. Griffin charged at me,  shrieking like a hellion, his sausage-like fingers morphing into vile talons. I braced the spear out in front of me and braced for impact, spear in front of me and ready to skewer.. I felt a sharp jolt, I looked up to see Griffin trapped on the barb of my spear. He was thrashing away in hopeless agony as the barb cut its way through his insides. He fell to the ground. I planted my boot on his Sternum and heaved at the spear with all of my might. Griffin fell limp, lacking the energy to continue struggling. I raised the spear above the pathetic abomination’s head, before plunging it down with a finality that made the audience shudder. I had done it! I had protected Britain from the Hellish reign if the BNP. I felt my legs going weak from exhaustion, and I fell to the ground.