They work for them

They work for them

It’s five-thirty in the morning in the Reading campaigns office. I’m chugging back my third cup of coffee of the morning and contemplating if it’s too early to pour some Jack Daniels into the plastic flimsy cup. The office smells like a vet’s surgery. Across from my desk sits James, a twenty something year old prick who’s just out of LSE and thinks he’s on the road to journalistic glory. He sits on one of his many blackberries’ tweeting about today’s events. He wears a Boss suit which probably cost him his whole fucking wages. He’s the ultimate young intern wanker; he’s useless, only here because his dad is a former old guard MP and he has that annoying boundless youthful enthusiasm which makes me want to slam his face on the curb. This is the office for local Reading East MP Owen McGrath. He’s fifty two + grey hair + drives a BMW series three = Tory wanker. He was one of the new intakes in twenty ten, and has spent his career campaigning for ‘better schools’ whatever the fuck that is, and is fixated on becoming a minister. He previously worked as an accountant (typical) and is one of these new “re-branded’” Tory MPs. A tweeting, open collar suit wearing, cosmopolitan bastard who pretends that all his friends are: Black, Gay, and grew up on a council estate. He’s ‘new man’ politics, he listens to Mumford and Sons and knows who last one the X-Factor. I’m here at five-thirty because we’re holding one of Owens ‘I’d like to go and see how a post office works because I care Oh so fucking much about what the working classes are up to and I want to prove I get up earlier than the rest of you’. But of course, the man is late, and we’ll have to pretend he was needed on the phone with the Education department. His senior press advisor, Richard who insists on being called ‘Rich’, is the ultimate phone on the belt wearing wanker. He’s another tweeting whore who loves photo opportunities and even has got Owen on instrgam tweeting fucking sunsets. He sidles in still wearing his fluorescent cycle jacket.

‘Hey, Guys’  anybody who addresses a room of two people as ‘guys’ needed to have their cock bitten off by a Rottweiler.

 ‘Morning, Richard’

‘Please, it’s Rich’ I wonder if my stapler is powerful enough to kill this twat.

‘So, guys, are we all prepped for the visit today to the post office today? Owen will be here in twenty.

‘Yep, no problem, I’ve got the Argus picture sorted and BBC Sussex will be there filming.’

‘Cheers, you’re a top lad, Mike’. Mike is me, and as far as he should be concerned, I’m his top fucking nightmare. He knows I’m after his job, and he knows I’m far over qualified for the fucking campaign managerial job I currently do. The reason Richard got the job of senior press office, is that his dad, a business guru, donated well over ten grand to Owen’s campaign in order for him to lobby in favour of off-shore drilling. So of course, when Richard sidled in with blackberry already in hand, cappuccino in the other, Owen had to hire him. He’d even been so fucking kind to pat me on the back ‘It’ll be you next, Mike. Keep your chin up’ I should have leaked his bank statements there and then, Tory cunt.

I’m twenty eight, a Reading Uni graduate myself, and spent ten years working various journalistic jobs. I worked the Berks local news reporter section for three years, the worst three years. Local news reports go something like this: spend the day asking people if they think their local roads speed limit is too fast, next comes a report on why the bins aren’t being collected often enough, and then do a report on how many shits Badgers take a year on farm property. By the end of the day you’re ready to blow your fucking brains out, and take every moron who you’ve interviewed that day with you screaming into hell. I’d often be reporting at a local school football tournament, watching a whole load of PlayStation playing; masturbating four times a day moronic kids kick a ball about. And then have the great job of asking them ‘Did you enjoy the day?’ I’d much rather see the kids play against the local fucking prison; see how much they enjoy the game then. I even have a fucking MA in Political Journalism from City. Ten thousand grand to end up asking acne faced kids if they’re enjoying kicking balls.

When I made it to twenty five I landed a slightly more respectable job, I reported for BBC London on semi-political issues. Is the local hospital meeting its target? I moved of up to political editor sub and worked a year doing more substantial shit, interviewing local councillors and the odd backbencher. I decided to go into the ‘deep end’ and work for a local MP, pretty much halve my salary and move back in with two of my uni flatmates. We live in a cramped three bed shite hole not fit for a tramp. The toilet has antique skid marks engrained on the sides, the kitchen smells of dope, we can barely afford heating either. All of us are in our early thirties, with pitiful incomes, we blow our cash on booze, spliffs and clubbing. We all shop at Aldi, and mostly eat pizza. We live like pigs, but to young guys we live like kings. The house next door is filled with a load of Reading second years. Whenever they have a party, we’ll rock up, ganja in hand, bottle of Jack in the other, and get the fucking party stared. A case of lager later and we’re sleazing up to the local girls, impressing them with our youthful lives. I always win, as I work in politics, they assume I have power. In reality, the only power I have is to organise an event over fucking Facebook, but hey. I went into politics because I wanted media control, not because I want to help make the world a better place, you could do that by cancelling X Factor. The game plan is to do my time with Owen, organize some campaigns, get him re-elected with an increased majority and then hopefully get a job at HQ. If not, I’ll quit, and spend my days teaching a bullshit journalism class at Thames Valley University, jacking off to Maggie Thatcher YouTube videos.

*

Richard slaps me on the back “ready for fresher’s fair today, mate?” Oh for fucks sake.

“Why do we do these fresher’s events, a bunch of smelly teenagers who think they’re the next DC” DC is party lingo for David Cameron, who I’ve met once, tall guy, flimsy handshake, must be a terrible masturbator. “Because Owen likes to be popular with students, and they’re great for leafleting, you know all that …. shit”. Richard cannot swear, when he does it sounds like how your Nan might swear. Before I can argue my case about fresher’s further, Owen pops his head round the door, “anyone up for delivering some post?” James jumps up “Right on, Sir”. Christ alive, what a cunt. “Mike, could you do me a favour and cancel out my visit to the school tomorrow; I’m being seconded by no. 10”. Owen is the kind of person who drops in information like that to big up anticipation, of course, like the puppets they are, both James and Richard are game for it. “No, 10? What’s this?” Owen now has the room, well, two fucking morons at his feet. “Reshuffle is coming up and I have a feeling all our hard work will pay off, I’m thinking possibly a junior minister position in Education”. Well obviously it’s going to be junior, does this guy think he’s going to be foreign secretary? “Amazing, amazing” Both James and Richard are obviously now picturing themselves shaking hands with DC and then going for a piss up with the cabinet. I’ve been doing this only three years, but I know if he really does get a decent position, he’ll never be seeing us again. We’ll spend our lives being his ‘re-election bitches’, currently; we’re just his ‘bitches’ plain and simple. “Well let’s not get our hopes up yet, it could just be a bollocking for what happened last week”.

Last week, Owen made a tit of himself in front of anyone who was sad enough to be watching the news at ten. He, and a bitch Labour MP Sharon Sullivan, a stuck up cow that needs a good ride on Ed Miliband’s cock, were discussing DC’s plan to ban porn on the internet. What a fucking knob was my reaction, when I come home at nine in the evening I don’t flick on ‘Eatsenders’, I grab a Becks from the fridge and wack off to ‘Stagnetti’s Revenge’ (a Pirates of the Caribbean porno).

Owen, who favoured the idea, was making the point using his son as an example. “My son, who’s just turned twelve, will soon be exposed to the dangers of the internet. I’ve seen some, well not seen literally (Oh fuck) seen some of the horrific scenes that are portrayed. It’s degrading towards women (nice save) and paints them in a horrific mosaic of misogyny (what the fuck?). We bought Jack, my son, a laptop for his twelfth birthday, and I hate to think he could access….’ Que for bitch MP to pipe in. “Sorry, you bought a laptop for a twelve year old? Don’t you think it would be better to just not give him the means to access pornography?”

So now, Owen looks like a dad who spoils his son, a rich Tory wanker who can afford laptops for his kids, and, also, says he’s seen porn. Fuck. A. Duck. “Well, kids these days will see pornography at school (Probably shown to them by the fat IT teacher) and also, Jack needs a laptop for studying purposes”. He's twelve, he spends his day at school learning what the capital of fucking Ireland is. “The point is…” again, second que for the cow. “But don’t you think a laptop for a twelve year old is a bit off? My son (who’s probably home furiously wanking on your computer while you’re out) isn’t even aloud a TV in is room, or a laptop.”

The interviewer pipes in and nods like fucking Churchill “Yes, I have the same rule that you do”. Sorry, when did this turn into loose women? Owen tries to save himself “Look, the pressure the school puts on him means he needs a laptop. Back to the topic of Pornography though, we need controls in place to protect young people. I fully endorse David’s (he’s not your best mate, call him the Prime Minister) plan, it’s bold, but from the heart. I’m sure all parents tonight will be glad that David is proposing to protect our children from the dangers of pornography.” No they’ll all be pissed that their sons won’t be out of their way, drooling over women’s tits that look like party balloons. “And, Sharon, as a mother, I’m sure you agree that this is a genuinely good idea”.

She strikes back like the viper she is “Owen, it’s great that you get all misty eyed over David’s plans (interviewer chuckles) but at the end of the day, why can’t us parents be allowed to talk to our kids about the dangers. Surely this is just the nanny state telling us all we can’t parent our children.” I watch Owen squirm; the blood draining from his face, the fucker wrote a book three years ago entitled ‘New Labour, The Nanny-State has to go’. “ Well, I believe that this is not so much the nanny state, pornography is like a cancer, it’s can’t be controlled, um, I think it needs robust reform (what, only allowed to show missionary style?) Not all parents will feel comfortable having this discussion; they simply will stick their heads in the sand”. So now he’s slagged off all parents. “So, have you had this discussion with Jack, Owen?” I can’t be arsed to watch this anymore, all I’m thinking is how long it will be before some acne faced twat re-edits this and puts it on YouTube. Then it’ll be on the fucking Graham Norton show. I see Sharon’s press guy laughing and giving me the finger. I grab a piece of paper and write ‘CUNT’ and hold it up. Seriously, that kind of stuff happens all the time behind cameras. After the interview, Owen wipes the sweat from his forehead “how bad was it?” I sigh; put a hand on his shoulder “ever seen Stagnetti’s Revenge?” .