“Am I pleased to see you,” I whispered in my research as- sistant’s ear, “or have I got a gi- ant, erect cock in my pocket?” I quipped, wittily.
“I’m not interested” she re- plied, flopping her papers on my desk.
I could tell she was inter- ested. As the blush spread across her acne-pocked cheeks, the het- erosexual sex-tension was thick as bricks in air. She was interested, alright. Interested in my giant cock, probably.
I was giddy with adrenalin after another brilliant Prime Min- ister’s Questions. “Did you hear what I said in there?” I asked, knowing that she definitely had.
“No I didn’t,” she lied, in a way that said ‘yes I did and tell me more’.
“I said that capitalism isn’t working. I said we need to rethink it. How bloody right am I?”
‘Edward, you fiend!’ I thought, smirking. ‘You’re a mar- ried man. Of course you could have any girl you want, but leave the interns in peace!’ After all, you never know if Clegg’s already ‘tagged’ them. And then you end up paying.
But I was insatiable.
“Oh, the capitalism line again” came her congratulatory response. From her monotone I could tell she was impressed not only by what I’d said but also by the tremendous size of my cock.
“Yes that one!” I grinned. “And then I said that Cameron probably knows all of the words to the Eton boat song, but none of the words to ‘Bits and Pieces’ by the Dave Clark Five. I think I proved my point.”
“I have to go, Mr. Miliband, there’s some casework I really should get on with. That problem with the bins back in the constitu- ency” she mumbled, reaching for the rigid door handle, her fiery ginger locks catching briefly in her orthodontic braces.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather reach for something in my trousers? I’ve got a bone in there for you, you bloody dog.”
I like to treat them mean – it’s what they expect from such a powerful man.
Suddenly aware that she might have misunderstood me, I swiftly added: “F.Y.I. by bone I meant my giant cock.”
Haughtily, aroused, she heaved open the door, deftly pushing aside the large armchair I’d shoved in front of it. “Good- bye” she muttered, presumably inviting me back to her flat for sex. But I, Ed Miliband, had im- portant work to do. When a na- tion needs saving, a man has to know his priorities.
“Could you send one of the other interns in?” I shouted after her.
“How about Gareth?” she replied.
“Well, obviously not.”
Gareth is rubbish.