So the Election Day countdown begins. Are you getting excited yet? Or even mildly curious about the eventual outcome of this very peculiar election campaign where no two polls seem to agree about anything?
Well you should be. Because this is likely to be a defining moment in British history. In years to come, college lecturers yet unborn will scribble "8 June 2017" onto whiteboards before their comatose classes and circle the date so emphatically their magic markers will squeak in protest.
"This day," they will say, "was the Beginning of the End."
Or not. Who knows? Certainly not the polls.
You'd have thought with such a disastrous campaign Treeza Mayhem would have blown her chances of being returned with the landslide majority she clearly anticipated. Not many prospective PMs have U-turned on their manifesto promises before the actual election. Mind you, not many prospective PMs had the dumbfuckery to put such suicidal policies as the Dementia Tax in the bloody manifesto to start with. It really is a corker. After half a century of telling the electorate they weren't worth a tuppenny damn unless they owned their own home, after assiduously encouraging them to scrape and starve to pay off a fucking mortgage just to live up to that ideal, after assuring them it was all worth it because they'd have something to pass on to their loved ones when they were gone. After all that up they pop without a word of warning and whip the old Homestead out from under their devoted core voters to pay their social care bill. And even more astonishing was May's clueless reaction to the predictable horror with which this proposal was met. Such a monumental level of political ineptitude has caused some to suspect she's deliberately hobbling her own chances to get out of the poison chalice of Brexit negotiations.
So, you'd have thought she'd be toast by this time. But tory voters are nothing if not resilient. Most of them would gladly pay the dementia tax and sell their own offspring into slavery to keep Corbyn out of Downing Street. So with the polls giving us no clue we can only turn to the ancient art of scrying, which is what I did.
First up is the traditional crystal ball. I'm getting ...someone with blonde hair. Boris for PM? No, high heels as well. So who does that leave? Anna Soubry? Esther McVile is standing too, I'm told. Or maybe that mop haired prat whatsisname...Michael Fabricant. Shit, I'm not very good at this. Maybe because my crystal ball is less a crystal ball and more the side of a chrome kettle.
Never mind, there's always the tarot cards. First card up is the Devil. Hmm. Could be anyone. Although he does look a bit like Treeza doing one of her girning faces. According to my Dummies Guide that means greed and attachment to worldly wealth. Definitely a tory then. Next card is the nine of swords...the nightmare card. Chances of a tory increasing. Bloody hell, I don't think I want to look at another one.
Ah, well. If all else fails try the tea leaves. I've got two lumps, one big and one small. Could be UK leaving the EU? Or Scotland leaving the UK? Or maybe I should just stick to tea bags in future.
So, as you can see fortune telling is no easier to interpret than the polls. But in the spirit of blagging something to finish this blog, here is..
Mystic Sandra's Prediction for the 2017 General Election
A tory win, but with a majority reduced to one. Before tory central office have popped the first bottle of champers Mayhem will be unceremoniously dumped and replaced by someone much more charismatic like Boorish or Hammond or the Downing Street cat. Such will be the bitter in-fighting in the leadership contest we could even end up with someone outrageous like Baroness Mone or Roof Davidson, neither of whom are MPs but by this point nobody would care. After six months of clusterfuck u-turns and a No Deal Brexit disaster the country will be plunged into eye watering recession. The social care crisis and Dementia Tax issue will be solved overnight as greedy relatives bump off granny and make her into soup as they can no longer afford to buy Campbell's cockaleekie which by now costs £1000 per can. Brexiteers will be lynched and hung from street corner lamp posts and the furious masses will rise up and storm the gates of Downing Street demanding yet another election which will see Comrade Corbyn sweep to a landslide victory before he is assassinated by infuriated Blairites and replaced by an iPad.