Picture the scene: CCHQ...

“David “Call me Dave” Cameron sits at a meeting of his elite Shadow Cabinet - ie Francis Maude, Tory Party Chairman (sorry, person) and Cheerleader in Chief, and George Osborne, Shadow Chancellor and Cameron’s Chief Bitch. They are planning and analysing Tory Party Strategy. Such as it is.

“So, Francis, my old chum,” said David, smiling smugly to himself, “How did Greg Clark’s announcement about Churchill and Ms Toynbee go?”

“Well,” said Francis, wincing slightly, “It is both good and bad news. The good news is that Ms Toynbee seems to be pleased with the announcement. The bad news is that there are one or two highly pissed off people. And some evidence that there are mass defections to UKIP.”

“So, the good news outweighs the bad then, what?” asked Dave, still smiling smugly.

“Well, no, not really. You may have won Ms Toynbee’s vote, but the chances are that she will still vote for Brown. And in trying to win her vote, you may well have lost thousands of other core votes.”

“Hmmm,” said Dave, as thoughtfully as anyone who has worked in marketing can, “We need to have some sort of definite gesture… policy, if you will, to show our commitment to eradicating poverty.”

Francis choked on his tea, a little drip of it coming through his nose.

“What, really? You want to announce a policy? Really?” In his head, Francis began repeating the phrase “thank you Jesus” over and over again.

Dave jumped to his feet and rushed over to the well used flip chart in the corner. He clicked the top of a pen and began to frantically write on the flip chart.

“So, so, let’s brainstorm… what… what constitutes a *policy*?” he asked, looking into the middle distance and thinking frantically. Francis was about to speak, but Dave interrupted him. “Crivens! I’ve got it! Let’s run an ad campaign!”

Francis rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Let’s run an ad campaign!”

Francis spoke through clenched teeth.

“David, an ad campaign does not constitute a policy.”

“Don’t be silly, old bean, of course it does,” beamed the smiling, ex-marketing fuckwit. “There is nothing more decisive than an ad campaign. Now, let us have an ad campaign that addresses the causes of poverty. Now, when I was poor, how did that happen?”

Francis looked at Dave startled.

“I’m sorry, what? Say that again?”

“When I was poor, how did that happen?”

“Dave, when have you ever been poor?”

“Oh there was a time at school when I could afford anything at the tuck shop!”

Francis resisted the temptation to get up and punch Cameron in his jowly face.

“David, not being able to afford a penny sweet when you were at school is not being poverty stricken.”

“On don’t be a silly, of course it is! Poverty is relative now!”

“Oh, yes, sorry, Dave, I forgot that you had abandoned one of the central beliefs of the Conservative party for no real reason.”

“It is alright, Francis, could happen to anyone,” muttered George. Dave shot him an angry glance, and George had to fight the temptation to burst into tears.

“So, how did I get myself into a terrible tizzy whereby I could not afford any tuck? I know! I spent too much money on jazz mags for the boys in the dorm!”

“Ok, so your ad campaign is going to focus on the dangers of buying too many wank mags?” sighed Francis.

“No, no, no… let us make it broader than that. A campaign focussed on the danger of overspending!” A vacant look drifted across Cameron’s puffy face. “Now, when I was overspending and got myself in that awful predicament, it was like this inner beast took over. So, let us personify this inner beast… let us give court some controversy - let us give us the inner beast a really rude name!”

Francis looked at Dave and for some reason the word “motherfucker” sprung to mind.

“I know!” shouted Dave suddenly, his shrill nasal whine piercing the awkward silence of the room. “Let us call the inner beast the inner tosser. Brilliant, what?”

Francis resisted the temptation to reply in the negative. He scribbled the word tosser on his legal pad, and started doodling idly next to it.

“Now, now, how do we personify this inner tosser? I know! He should look like David Dickinson! He looks like a tosser! Now, lets him get to play the tosser!”

“That might not happen,” said Francis wearily.

“Why not?” snapped Cameron.

“It may be difficult to sell the idea to Dickinson of appearing in an advert based on the fact that you think he is a tosser.” Fearing Dave was about to launch into another tantrum, Francis launched on. “But, of course, we can have someone who looks like Dickinson – orange tan, bad suit etc.”

“Spiffing!” shouted Dave, throwing his pen in the air and failing utterly to catch it. “I want the ads everywhere! A massive, national – no, international – campaign, warning of the dangers of listening to your inner tosser and spending too much money.”

“Erm,” said the quiet voice of the painfully shy George, “There may be a problem.

In spite of being a grown man with a highly important job George was still dressed in his school uniform. And was still Dave’s fag. And Dave turned on him, enraged, barking angrily:

“Yes boy? What is it?”

George looked terrified, but managed to stutter a reply.

“Well… well… erm… the problem it… we’ve over spent… we have no money… we are over £30 million in debt…”

“And?” growled Dave fiercely.

Boy George let out a little sob, and Francis decided it was time to intervene.

“I think what Georgie is trying to say is that the reception might not be good if we launch a campaign warning people about debt at the same time as we announce that we are millions of pounds in debt.”

Dave frowned.

“What do you mean by ‘the reception might not be good?’”

“Well, I would imagine there would be headlines pointing out our utter hypocrisy.”

Francis winced as he saw Dave’s eyes light up at the word “headlines”. Dave darted across the room to where a tatty bit of A4 hung on the wall with the words “It’s the headlines, stupid!” scrawled in Cameron’s illegible hand-writing.

“Excellent! Top hole, what!” He beamed. “If it gets us headlines, we go for it! Any publicity is good publicity!”

“Even if it shows us to be complete and total tossers?” asked Francis, losing the will to live.

“Of course! Right, we are agreed, we are going with the campaign. Jeeves – sorry, I mean George - grab my books and get the car ready to follow behind my bike. I’m off to pose with the wee nipper.”

Dave strode towards to door as George grabbed both his books and Dave’s and ran from the room. Just as he was going through the door, Dave turned to Francis, still smiling.
“Don’t worry, Francis, my old mucker, if we properly run out of money we can always sell the soul of the party.”

With that Dave left the room, slamming the door confidently behind him. Francis spoke to an empty room, his voice a haggard, wearied whisper.

“No, David, I think we sold the soul of the party a long time ago.”

He looked down at his pad of paper and saw that, next to the word tosser, he has doodled a perfect portrait of Cameron, replete with pudgy cheeks, terrible hair and his cheesy, shit-eating grin.”

The above is a work of fiction. I stress, it is not real. However, with the utter toss coming from Senior Tories at the moment, it is difficult not to conclude that the above is actually how they make was currently passes for Tory policy. Unless someone has spiked CCHQ’s water supply with LSD.