The McGuffin Effect: My final report for Operation Miliband
Holy melancholy, Batman. Back to that crazy oligarchical-ass London for one last time in my capacity as international strategist for Labour’s “Operation PMM”.
That stood for Prime Minister Miliband, by the way. It could’ve ended better, no question. Original plan was that right about now Harry Potter and his Spiralized Face would be with yours truly in Bumshunter’s of Mayfair, my favourite English restaurant of all time if I’m not picking up the tab. We would be kicking back. Bumping oysters. Drinking Cristal from Theresa May’s goddam skull.
Instead I’m at One Brewer’s Green, watching the new interns tumbleweeding in from school. I’m here to hand in my final report (summary: you lost, morons) and my campaign Visa Platinum card to a receptionist who doesn’t even have my fucking name on her list. Christ in a bandanna, this place got Jonestowned and then some. Seems like everyone I knew here a month ago disappeared into witless protection.
Then who should come sweeping thru the front door like Agafuckingmemnon?
Little Andy Burnham. Flanked by bodyguards, trailing sycophants. Moisturised. Haircut. Jersey Shore eyebrows. Volumised lashes. Gorgeous. Pumped up to some whole new level of hetero non-reality. Hand to God, first thought? This chump’s finally getting arrested for impersonating a politician. Color me mindfucked when he tells me he’s now front-runner for party leader. I admit I laughed in his petulant-ass toddler face.
“You wanna be khareful zhere zhough, Joe” he says in his special big-boy voice. “Dhe power’s shiftin, la. I’m dhe Zhon now zhough eh?”
The dickpump’s gone fully Northern Powerhouse, I guess in a bid to wring some kind of credibility from his mope ass. He sounds like a character from Game of Thrones – Mangled Feral Bog Fuck 3. Now he’s calling himself “The Don”? Yeah, right. Guy’s got the gravitas of a fucking meringue.
In every workshop he’d be the one you’d have to slap around to motivate the others. Once, I asked everyone to imagine Labour’s manifesto as a big hot air policy balloon. Once we got aloft we might have to ditch all kinds of shit, but for now they were to take with them the one most precious thing they could imagine.
Tinkerbell chose “social justice” I seem to remember. Balls went for “economic stability” because that is literally all that fucking cronut ever said. Assclown Burnham had written down “The Footie”. What was that? Did he mean the FTSE Index? No, he meant “footie, like. I love me footie”. I tried my best to resolve the situation by punching his fucking arm until I felt better.
I later discovered he’d filed a complaint against me. Assault. Said I’d crossed a line, that Alastair Campbell had never gone further than Chinese burns. Ach, who gives an atomized shit any more? Labour elect this fucking plush toy as leader? They obviously want to die with dignity. See out their time as a quaint, dwindling relic of opposition, like those Belfast dudes scared of gay cakes.
My final report is really just “I told you so” spun out into 10,000 premium-charge words. Should have dumped Ed when I said, five minutes after our first meeting. Party was uncomfortable with him. People never liked him. The press found it so easy to vilify him I think even THEY were embarrassed by their own cruelty.
Ha ha, I’m just fucking with you. The press is one big composite asshole. It didn’t take a genius to work out what the Sun’s line was. “North London Geek Struggles to Eat Bacon”. I mean, seriously? They could have saved valuable headline space by just running with “Look At The Disgusting Jew”.
I’m not saying the Sun is some contemporary-ass Völkischer Beobachter. I’m not saying that, like Hitler, Rupert Murdoch uses newspapers to propagate hate crime. I’m not saying that the stench of Murdoch now hangs over the entire fucking planet like a low dark cloud of evil and despair. That would be unprofessional. I’m about to sign on to Hillary 2016 and I need to be on Fox, like a fuckload.
Instead, let me blame the Murdoch campaign on British society’s institutionalized anti-semitism, it’s easier. Face it, Britain’s turned itself into a spiteful, shitty little country. Its chief exports these days, far as I can see, are property equity and teenage jihadists. And fuck a chimmerney sweep, you guys do not root for the underdog any more. No siree bob, you root for the overdog. Deify the super-rich, demonize the poor. Makes me kind of homesick, yo.
Just one letter in my old pigeon-hole. Envelope’s got that tell-tale-ass spidery handwriting. Either some sweet little old lady or His Royal Dumbfuckness the Prince of Wales, complaining again about everything since Beethoven.
Oh, it’s from “Fuck You Eileen Tandy”. Full text as follows:
“Dear Mr McGuffin, I read about your work on the election campaign in a Guardian story about what went wrong. I have been a lifelong party supporter though disabled now. I can’t get out to doorstep or post leaflets any more but I was able to donate over a hundred pounds towards the campaign by cutting back on meals etc. I see you charged an astronomical fee and insisted on having lunch at a place called Bumshunters which I looked up on the internet. Very swish! Anyway, I just wanted to say that if my donation was able to pay for a small bowl of mixed olives for you and a lunch guest I feel as though I have really done my bit, you insufferable useless fucking freeloading American sack of bollocks. Fuck You Eileen Tandy”.
See what I mean? Spiteful. Bye, Britain. It’s been super-real. Kiss my ass.
Joe McGuffin is also a consultant for Ian Martin, who is a writer for Veep and The Thick of It.