Dave the Matador and his Cuadrilla of Red Tories

The (proverbial) sun was shining brightly in the Chamber today. Gordon listed his engagements, lips curling into a.. oh no! A smile. And it all went downhill from there, for his outer smile may be all smiley (or should that be scary), but his inner smile is but a grimace of rage (as Prescott demonstrated). Dave was confident, dancing around, red cape a-swishing, remarkably upbeat for someone whose bike had been stolen. Again. At least it was chained to something other than a bollard this time. He really has developed into a PM in waiting.

Dave wanted to know about (rub in) Gordon’s apocalyptic week. The cape a-swished, the trumpet a-sounded. Gordon was released into the ring, unimpressed, for he wanted a good old crisis. Gordon likes crises, he can do ‘swine flu’ – the jury’s still out on the ‘economy’ and the ‘difficult decisions’, my guess is it won’t be favourable. All he’s managed to do is to take some very simple decisions, make them very difficult, and then announce the resulting disaster on youtube.

“We’re getting on with the business of governing”, insisted Gordy. There is clearly some disparity in what constitutes ‘governing’. Dave gave another swish of the cloak, wafting it around the chamber towards the Communities Secretary who sensibly hid behind the Speaker’s chair. Hazel wasn’t getting involved, she’d already stuck her knife in. Gordon gurned (sorry, smiled) like an idiot. Out came the old ‘do nothing’ jibe, Dave wafted the cape a bit more. Wafty-waft, “youtube if you want to”, waft, waft. Gordon began to see red.

“We are taking action…” He was interrupted by gales of laughter from the Tory Cuadrilla poised to gallop in, lances ready. Tory cuts, u-turns, hug a hoodie. “Compassionate Conservatism has gone, gone…” err, Gordon hesitated, where was this going again? “Gone?”. Dave drew his sword. “I’m sure that sounded just great in the bunker, whilst the mobile phones and printers were flying”. Dave was now flying, back and forth, around and around, red cape a-swishing. Gordy stormed after him. Dave wanted a general election. Gordon charged. Gordon wanted to talk about issues, not listen to jibes from a party “in the dark ages”. The whole exchange was getting more like the dark ages by the minute. When was the last time swords were drawn and blood shed in parliament? Must be a t least three weeks. Dave sidestepped, but Gordon was not giving up. He lined up for one last charge. “He is completely out of his depth when it comes to the big issues in this country.” Ouch! Matador Dave had been speared on a horn and retired to the front bench to nurse the wound. Gordon did a victory circuit around a planted question.

Time for the Lib Dem interval, but this was not the usual funny dancing, or naff 80s music. Clegg entered the ring, knife already drawn. “There comes a point when stubbornness is not leadership; it is stupidity.” Dust was already appearing around Gordon’s feet. Clegg taunted him with “vacuous”, and then with “saving his own skin”. Gordy charged again, straight onto the outstretched knife, then blamed Clegg for attacking him. A bit rich from the man who once owned Damian MacBride.

Dave was bloody, but still fighting strong to orchestrate the final Tory push. Every Tory in the chamber was red to the PM (not in a Guardian-esque sense of the word I must assert). Question after question Dave’s Cuadrilla of Red Tories came galloping in on horseback, swords drawn, and question after question repeatedly stuck them into the Prime Minister. Petitions, elections, Gurkhas, they all drew blood. Gordon charged around after them. The Labour benches had given up - retiring to the proverbial greenhouse to cultivate a series of plants. Mighty Dave handed the sword to Stephen Crabb. Crabb stepped forward, sword in one hand, muleta in the other. “What does the Prime Minister intend to do about the important issue of bullying in the workplace, given the reliable reports of a senior Whitehall boss throwing around mobile phones and printers and swearing at switchboard operators?” Brown was no longer seeing red, he was seeing blue. He stormed towards Crabb in rage. “Any complaints are dealt with in the usual manner.” Crabb had plunged the great sword of Dave the Mighty Matador straight into Gordy’s one ‘nerve’. The Tory benches took cover in case the PM had a Nokia or two on him. The crowd cheered. Labour fell silent. Johnson risked a smile. Dave had better be careful not to kill this weak bull, for that risks the possibility of a much stronger replacement.