JOLLY JAPES AT CONFERENCE

 

I WENT to the Tory conference so none of you plebs had to and what a grand old time we did have.

After our warm welcome by a somewhat sweaty Boris - I think Carrie might have been giving him a bit of a seeing to because he had sweat-stained armpits and his belly was still wobbling - we all sat down to a lovely breakfast of smoked salmon and caviar, just as we have at home.

After washing it down with a rather fine champagne, never too early for good champers, many of our MPs fell asleep in their chairs, but this was to be expected, and as they only had to rouse themselves when prodded to shout out “hear, hear” on occasion, who could blame them? These conferences are not easy going.

I thoroughly enjoyed the first speech by our sexy little Secretary of State, the adorable Michael, who had the most helpful tips for those of us who cannot get our food flown in on private jets when the food shortages really start to hit. I don’t really know who can’t do this, but as he brought it up I must assume there are some poor souls out there without recourse to a friend with a private plane. Takes all sorts they say. 

As he explained, the food is here, we just have to know how to get it. I will admit to being sceptical when he first spoke of using a bow and arrow to hunt down the poor people living on the streets, but it soon became clear that the silence of that particular weaponry is to our advantage and a bit more sporting than using the old rifle. Although let’s be honest, most of them are far too weak to be able to run away; it’s not our fault if they can’t get down to the gym or eat the substantial meals we do.

Michael left the stage to resounding applause, indicating on his way out of the hall just where we could buy these helpful archery sets.

We then had a break for an early lunch of pheasant slices in a delicious raspberry sauce, followed by grilled lobster dripping with butter (Boris unfortunately spilled some butter down his chin and the front of his shirt, and how we guffawed at the sight) and then raspberry and almond tartlets with dollops of cream. I hadn’t noticed, but luckily dear old Rishi was sitting next to me and pointed out that the raspberry mixture had been made in part by a rather sweet old chap called Jerry or Jeremy or something who had apparently lost a rather good job last year. I saw him washing dishes in the kitchen and raised my glass to him. The old chap was clearly near to tears with gratitude.

Although we all could have done with a jolly good nap after the fantastic nosh we trundled back into the hall to listen to the absolutely delightful Liz T’s speech on how better to connect to the ‘working class’. To be honest, there was a bit of grumbling when we heard the topic because why do we need to connect to that dirty, often-unemployed bunch of ne’er do wells? But Liz explained to us that it could take even more votes away from that Keith chappy (not quite sure what he does but dear Liz seemed to think it worth chatting about) so we all had a good laugh about that.

And it turned out to be quite interesting. It seems it’s really not the done thing to burn fifty quid notes in front of them when they’re just lolling about on the street (who knew?) but if we toss them a few pence, not too much mind, they will doff their caps and thank us. I have to say this brought a smile to many faces, including my own. Always warms the heart to know you have helped one of these godforsaken creatures.

We then returned to the dining hall for a short break where we imbibed more champagne and the most delicious foie gras. Those geese are worth their weight in gold, almost.

To end the day we gathered in a large circle for our annual party piece - the Thatcher seance, where we are given all sorts of ideas by that wonderful and much-loved lady on how to grow our wealth (higher taxes for the plebs and lower ones for us) and which countries to stash it in when we need to escape those pesky tax collectors. I know what you’re saying: they don’t really bother with us, and that is true, but we shouldn’t forget that a rogue one might slip through the vetting process and attempt to make an example of one of us, and we can’t be having that.

Let the ‘workers’ pay their taxes because when all is said and done they are the ones who use the public services more than we do. We prefer to jet or helicopter rather than drive on what are really just not very well-kept roads; we have our own private hospitals and schools, and of course (sshhhh) we basically own the police and the armed forces.

So up the workers I say! No, I mean it, stick it right up them.

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