As election fever grips the nation once again (ok, it’s not exactly a fever, more of a light chill) we’re gearing up for another six weeks of political hoo-ha, puzzling polls and excruciating ‘on the street’ interviews with Beryl from the arse-end of nowhere explaining that she’s voting UKIP because bananas don’t smell the same anymore…
So, will our next leader be May, Corbyn or that other bloke?
I’m considering mixing it up a bit and throwing another candidate’s hat into the ring…here’s why I think my 18 month old has all the makings of an excellent Prime Minister:
- She’d fit right in at the House of Commons. The tantrums, the name-calling, the random animal noises, someone dozing off in the corner – it’s basically nursery with nicer chairs.
- Apparently, the key to getting elected is knocking on enough doors. This is totally Miss O’s forte. I spend 80% of my time on our ‘lovely walks’ together hauling her off other people’s driveways and apologising to the neighbours. Last week a nice lady down the road gave her a biscuit, which was very sweet but ultimately detrimental to my efforts as, fuelled on the promise of more sugar, she now launches herself at every house we pass like a tiny chugger desperate to hit target.
- She ALWAYS gets the best deal. Yesterday evening, a line was drawn in the sand; CBeebies was over for the day, there would be no more chocolate before bedtime and no, Mummy’s make-up bag is COMPLETELY out of bounds! After a tense stand-off, we compromised on back-to-back Postman Pat, a bag of buttons and a certain someone jabbing me in the eye with my blusher brush. I don’t know why I even attempt to reason with her anymore; I’d have more luck capturing a fart with a colander…
- She’s bloody fantastic with money – she’s got a bigger wardrobe than I have, more toys than the Early Learning Centre, and all without spending a penny! She’ll obliterate that deficit in no time.
- When the inevitable shit-slinging begins, she’ll certainly be able to give as good as she gets – hopefully her enemies won’t end up dry-retching in the shower like mummy does…
- If a bit of creative accountancy is required, she’s an absolute master at cooking the books. I have to search the oven every time I turn it on in case one of her board books is lurking inside (‘That’s not my cow – its face is TOOO…well, it’s completely f*cked now mummy!’)
- Margaret Thatcher prided herself on getting by on just 4 hours sleep a night. PAH! Miss O could clock no more than a 30 minute catnap and still have the energy to ransack the entire house, hide everything I own and WhatsApp my extended family (on my PASSWORD PROTECTED phone – wtf??)
And finally…she has completed nailed her ‘feck OFF you epic wank-muffin; I’ve got a country to run!’ face:
So, can we count on your vote?