As you may know because of the
criminal behaviour of Christopher Huhne, there has been a by-election in a
place called Eastleigh, which until Christopher Huhne resigned as the MP I had
never heard of. But, I was confident that the plebs of this place would welcome
a new Tory MP so I decided I would go and campaign there. Although the Foreign
Secretary William Hague telephoned me and begged me not to campaign, the
temptation to go and relive some of my electioneering glory was too powerful to
resist. The days campaigning with Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s were quite
frankly some of the greatest days of my life, as I bathed in the great charisma
and golden glow of our greatest Prime Minister (and second greatest lady in the
country after Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II).
The
morning of the February 27 was an
early start for me, as I was keen to arrive and start campaigning immediately,
so we set off at around 9.15am. I decided to take Victor with me as firstly I
very rarely drive myself anywhere unless I am driving for pleasure on Sundays,
and secondly mixing with peasants can be a dangerous business so I needed Victor
with me for bodily protection. We arrived in Eastleigh about two hours later. We
drove around for a little while to see what kind of place it was. I quickly
concluded it was some kind of suburban nightmare. Vile semi-detached houses
dotted the place, along with horrid family saloons and hatchbacks. Suddenly the
prospect of mixing with the kind of peasants who would live in an area like this
filled me with horror, but I had to do it for the good of the party.
Eventually we decided to park up
at an Esso petrol station on Twyford Road. This would be the perfect spot to
inflate my 12 foot Margaret Thatcher. I had it made for the 1987 general
election. It toured the country and visited around one hundred constituencies.
I have a picture of the great lady herself posing with me next to the
inflatable Maggie, which I had framed and now keep on my desk. Some
commentators even claimed it may have won the election for Baroness Thatcher,
which I do not doubt to be true. I was sure that the sight of a 12 foot
Baroness Thatcher would remind the peasants of Eastleigh that it’s always
better where the Tories are, even if there is mass unemployment and the weather
isn’t very nice. It took around thirty minutes for the great lady to inflate,
but when she was fully blown up she looked just as magnificent as she ever did.
With the great lady inflated, it was time for the real campaigning to begin. I
set off to do what I do best... give instructions to peasants.
We located a nearby housing
estate and parked the Bentley up. There weren’t any parking spaces big enough
to fit the Bentley in so I instructed Victor to park in an empty driveway. I
was sure the owner wouldn’t mind when they discovered it was my car, besides it
would probably convince the neighbours they had won the lottery, which would be
a temporary buzz for the owner. It was time to do some good old fashioned door
knocking. I picked a house and embarked up the driveway. I was clutching some
leaflets I had my son Edward make on his Apple machine. The leaflet showed a
large picture of me holding my favourite rifle, and simply said “SIR PETER
COMMANDS YOU TO VOTE CONSERVATIVE”. This was an unorthodox leaflet, but the
Conservative candidate Maria Hutchings was a rather ugly woman, and I doubted
any voters would rather see her face than mine. I knocked on the door and a
rather portly fellow answered, although I missed him at first because he was in
a wheelchair. I quipped to Victor “Here we go, a Labour layabout on benefits”.
The chap looked rather perplexed. He asked what I wanted and I told him I was
here to command him to vote Conservative as it was his moral duty. “And why
should I vote for that lot?” he rather rudely queried. “Because I have driven
for two hours to get here and it’s the least you could do” I replied. “I always
vote Lib Dem, I like the council here”,
he bizarrely claimed. “Forget about those losers and vote Conservative, we’ve
got a work programme for you disabled lot and it’s always better to be in work
than in a wheelchair claiming benefits”... I informed him. By this point he
looked to be quite furious with me but I wasn’t giving up. He tried to slam the
door but Victor grabbed it before it could shut. I thrust a leaflet in his face
and gave him my final instruction. “Listen here dear boy, take this leaflet,
and make sure you roll yourself down to the polling station before ten o’ clock
to vote Conservative”. He told me to ‘go fuck myself’ and then rather rudely
slammed the door. Although he was clearly angry with me, I was sure that by the
end of the day he would feel guilty about sitting about in a wheelchair and
claiming benefits, and would do his patriotic duty.
By this point I had had just
about enough of door knocking and decided it was time to eat some lunch. We got
back into the car and set off to find a food source. Eventually we spotted a
cafe which seemed to be selling food, so I sent in Victor to buy some
sandwiches and tea. He came back with some delicious looking cucumber
sandwiches and some tea in polystyrene cups. We parked up in the middle of the
town to consume these items. As we were taking in our lunch I spotted a fellow
in orange trousers standing at a bus stop, smoking a cigarette and chatting to
a fat woman. After a while I recognised this fellow to be the rebel pleb Nigel
Farage. “Look at that Victor... it’s that fellow” I shouted at Victor. “Who’s
that?” he asked. “A very rebellious peasant” I informed him. After a few moments it dawned on me that I
could end this UKIP nonsense once and for all. I instructed Victor to engage
the car in ‘drive’ and run Farage over. We could claim it was an accident,
claim that Victor’s foot slipped onto the gas pedal and wiped out the whole
sorry UKIP bandwagon in one go. Victor was dead against the idea as he had
recently received a suspended prison sentence for viciously attacking a fellow
peasant outside a public house. Victor had gone back to visit his home city of
Leicester, he was drinking outside a public house whilst wearing his Leicester City
Football Team jersey. A fan from the rival soccer team The Nottingham Forests
had insulted him, and Victor had beaten him up and stabbed him with a broken
beer bottle in the neck. Running down Nigel Farage would probably see him sent
to prison. My plan thwarted, we retreated back to the Esso petrol station to
check on the inflatable Margaret Thatcher.
As we pulled into the petrol
station I was horrified to see that the 12ft Baroness Thatcher had been
attacked. Some pleb had drawn a rather large penis on the face, pointing into
her mouth. As if this wasn’t bad enough, they had coloured it in to make it
black. I know for a fact that she has never fellated any man, not even her
husband Dennis, let alone a black fellow. This was the final straw. I could not
let this stand. I shouted at the nearest pleb, a rather camp fellow who was
mincing his way across the forecourt. “You there... stop right away” I barked
at him. He turned around to see what the commotion was and I berated him. “Who
did this to Baroness Thatcher?” I asked him. “What are you going on about you
nutter?” he brusquely replied. “One of your lot wasn’t it? You know she wasn’t
keen on you lot!” I informed him. He suddenly became rather defensive. “And
what do you mean by ‘your lot’?” he bellowed. “Poofters! Bloody poofters! First
you get gay marriage and now you’re vandalising the place!” I forcefully
explained. Quick as a flash he slapped me across the face. I was sent into a
furious rage, but Victor had already grabbed him and sent him flying head first
into one of the bins they put next to the petrol pumps. “Let’s fucking do one, the
Old Bill will he here in a minute...” said a panicked Victor. He was right; the
police have nothing better to do these days than arrest patriotic citizens. We
hopped into the Bentley and sped off back to Gloucestershire and the serene
sanity of my estate. We had to leave inflatable Maggie there, but she is
useless to me now anyway with a large penis on her face. Enjoy your new Lib Dem
MP, Eastleigh, you have disgraced yourselves in the eyes of the world and the
great Sir Peter Maxwell!
Forceful regards,
SIR PETER MAXWELL KBE
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