Election notes

Election notes. 11.06.2010.

Day Five of a very long, slow car crash, or if you prefer, a game of Parliamentary Poker...or if you'd rather, Pass the Policy Parcel.
In the Poker game, he pokes you, you poke him, he pokes you back while poking the other one. That one pokes back with a concealed hand of policy cards. Then the first one pokes back with a different array of policy cards, adding interest. And so on. They all continue poking each other whilst threatening to declare their hands and to quit and throw in their chips while they are ahead, err, behind.
The trick is to do it at the right time with the best array of policy cards.

In the Parcel game, each contestant offloads the offending Policy Parcel on to the next player while the Parliamentary music fills the airwaves. As soon as it stops, the person left with the parcel in their hand is sent to Number Ten.
After the jiggery pokery had been wound-up, the Parliamentary parlour games were suspended with Cameron having caught Clegg, rabbit-eyed, in the headlights at one of those critical moments.
The black jag. with the jet-lagged P.M. rolled in and out of Buckingham Palace. The P.M gave his resignation speech, all heart. The silver jag with the incoming P.M, David Cameron, rolled along Horseguards Parade. The bus to Crouch End overtook the silver jag. in the bus lane. The traffic light, symbollically on red, stopped the traffic, buses, taxis, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all plus a lone mobile phone snapper peering through the smoked black windows of the silver jag. Inside, Sam Cam may have had the appearance of someone in the back of a prison van. Silver jag rolled up to Buckingham Palace, past some scaffolding and a few skips at the palace entrance. I thought I heard the sound of clapping from the sparse crowd who had gathered there but it turned out to be merely the crunching of gravel on the driveway. Cam. went in to chat to the Queen.
Sam waited in the car.
As the moment yawned, chasm-like, waiting for the incumbent to step out, I hoped, in a flight of fancy, that the Bullingdon Club 'Youngest Prime Minister-in-Waiting-for-200-years' was going to bottle it, that this was why he wouldn't emerge from Buckingham Palace but I should have realised that an old Etonian with a Shellac mask for a face and buttons for eyes, something like one of the Medici traders of the Middle Ages was far too thick-skinned to be faint-hearted. A coup had happened, The Tories had stolen the Libdem clothes. The Libdems will rue their subservience to the Tories. We all will. Well, most of us (the majority?!). They'll wish they had thrown the Red mantle over their kingmaking shoulders. The Tories have tooled leather skins as well as shoes... they'll be procuring Trident, possibly letting off some of the rich top-earners from taxation. And killing foxes. And Cameron likes a good fox-hunt. Remember that.