Cupcakes and the General Election

Lolly JonesComment

In the lead up to the General Election, my local bakery sold Party cupcakes.  By ‘Party’, I don’t mean they were laced with MDMA and came with a complimentary doggy bag as you edged out the door.  I mean ‘Political Party’ themed cupcakes. 

Because your policies should always come with E numbers. 

Here were the results:

Dunn's Bakery

This surprised me.  Largely, that many Crouch Enders would nosh down on something that wasn’t gluten free and fused with endamame bean extract.  Also, that the Lib Dems weren’t marching out in front (Lynne Featherstone has been a pioneering MP in many vital areas, most notably in the fight against FGM) but my main issue at Dunn’s Bakery was that they had sold 39 UKip cakes.  In N8 left wing utopia!  Yes.  That’s 39 UKip cakes! 

One would hope that there is a very podgy racist shuffling his way up Ferme Park Road.  But what if they were troughed by 39 separate, perfectly toned racists, dirty ideals forming behind their sugary, purple lips?

And what also of the 31 closet Tories shopping in Budgens, buying organic pineapples with the rest of us, outwardly pretending that they care about the banking crisis and social housing?  Behemoths!

The lead up to this election has been a farce.  I watched an ITV news report last week where ‘floating voters’ were taken out on the Thames and interviewed whilst…well, floating.  FOR THE LOVE OF WINSTON CHURCHILL!  Why not just take a Big Ben shaped sledgehammer and whack us between the eyes?

Also, we had the fashionista Ken doll that is Joey Essex interviewing political leaders.  One of whom he thought was called Nick Leg - leader of the Liberal DemoCATS.  In his confusion and basic thinking – “why can’t we make sure everyone is happy”? , he talked more sense than most.  Although, he did eat fish and chips with fascsinista Farage (see what I did there!?), proving that no one, not even an anorak wearing Ken doll is perfect.

Joey and Farage

Also, I’m bored of the Ed Miliband slagging.  So he’s not as hot as his brother.  He’s probably got a bigger schlong.  Or at the very least, his policies are probably more socialist, more profound.  And he can’t breathe out of his nose.  So what?  We don’t have to climb into bed with him (unless you’re the egalitarian leader of the Scottish National Party, in which case your whole country may just have to).

Nowhere in the press have I heard Cameron’s deceitful ruddy cheeks questioned or likewise, his inability to grow a beard.  Who can trust a hairless man?  (I did once, and he slept with a ginger-follicled temptress whilst I was holidaying in Skegness). 

Yesterday, I was one of the 6 people choking on an Undecided cupcake.  It wasn’t sour or hard to swallow like the blue one, it wasn’t out of date like the yellow one (sorry Lynne-I respect you but I have to follow my heart), importantly, it also didn’t have the flavour or healing properties of the greens.  But because I need to believe that change is possible – tomorrow, for the first time in my life I will be chowing down on a big, gooey sponge of red.

I just hope that this one comes with a doggy bag.  I dream of coloured crayons, a plastic tractor and a big socialist shift in Britain where capitalist thieves are held accountable, human beings are equal and the poor aren’t left to rot. 

Then, Joey Essex…only then, might everyone be a little closer to being happy.