By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who knows Trump will cheekily violate the Iran agreement the moment it’s convenient
ON the eve of the most important election of the last 400 years, it is finally time to admit my truth: I have had Andy Burnham, and his microdick went off after two thrusts.
The location? Manchester, of course. By the bins round the back of indie nightclub 42nd Street. The date? Not sure exactly, but it was after one of his failed leadership bids. Which doesn’t exactly narrow it down.
I was young, gorgeous, yet to ripen into the voluptuous conservatism that comes only with age. He was dark, brooding, and without a doubt wearing mascara, I don’t know why he denies it, I thought Labour were all meant to be polysexual or whatever.
He sashayed over to me. I’ll never forget his opening line: ‘I’m really left-wing but pretend not to be. Fancy a drink? I’ll charge it to my constituency expenses. They’ll never know.’
Charmed by this display of unashamed corruption – my right-wing tendencies stirring even then – I accepted a porn star martini. ‘Under my rule, every 18-year-old girl will be a porn star,’ he said with a wink. ‘There won’t be any other jobs.’
‘Tell me more,’ I said, and he outlined his vision of the future: grooming gangs in every conurbation, Britain a gimp to the EU, the Pride flag branded on your buttocks or you’re not allowed to vote, and compulsory suicide for the over-60s with a punitive death tax.
Against my better judgement, I found my loins inflamed. ‘Is there somewhere we could go?’ I asked, ‘or are you married?’ ‘No idea,’ he replied, ‘and anyway it wouldn’t stop me. I’ll f**k anything that moves and yes, that includes beasts of the field.’
We made our way downstairs, Burnham ignoring several crimes because of the race of the perpetrators as we went, and out to the bins. Where he dropped his trousers and revealed the scale of the disappointment voters will face if they make him prime minister.
‘Is that it?’ I said. ‘Get ready, love,’ he answered and forced himself upon me. In less time than it takes a Labour government to betray their mandate, it was all over. ‘Don’t worry about contraception,’ he said as a parting shot, ‘my sperm’s weak because I’m vegan.’
That is the Andy Burnham I knew. The Andy Burnham it is still in the power of Makerfield’s voters to stop. Not that I’m trying to influence the by-election or anything, I just thought you’d want to know.
