BY JOHN DREWRY
Looking back to the cataclysmic events in late 2024/25, it becomes obvious what happened. But then it’s easier to rewrite history than to comprehend it as it unfolds. Yet, ‘the moving pen writes’ and as I write this, I am already rewriting history. I’m inevitably building a picture different to the real one, because I have to start from somewhere, and as soon as I do, I put my own spin on cause and effect. It is rather like those futile attempts to pinpoint the very beginnings of the French or Russian revolutions, or the start of the First World War. ‘Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated’, write the second-graders, as though the subsequent killing of millions has just been explained.
The protest vote in general elections can be more than one thing. It can be voting deliberately for the other side, in order to express one’s violent displeasure. A variation on that attitude is to assess the least ugly baby in an ugly baby competition. That is, until you realise they’re all the same ugly baby. At which point, some voters deliberately spoil their ballot papers. Others simply stay at home, the no-voters.
Another type of protest is to vote for a silly candidate. When David Sutch introduced his Official Monster Raving Loony Party, he lost every deposit over the years. The voters were as loony as the candidate. In subsequent decades, it became a familiar sight to see all kinds of loony candidates having a go and losing their deposits. They were a fixture of English eccentricity.
By 2024, however, it had become common parlance to talk about ‘the clown world’ of politics, and how ‘the lunatics had taken over the asylum’. It was then a small step to say ‘I may as well vote for a real clown. After all, they couldn’t do any worse, could they? And at least it will kick out the current Uniparty of unfunny pretenders.’
A scientist once said that if all the molecules in a substance pointed in the same direction simultaneously, it would fly off into space at the speed of light. But the odds on it happening were infinitesimally small. Now voting at the end of the day is a personal affair at the secret ballot box. And while some of us are voluble about whom we intend to vote for, many of us aren’t, or else we lie. We make a personal decision, and when mass cynicism produces great uncertainty rather than planned commitment, our decisions are more last-minute, impetuous and unpredictable, even to ourselves.
So, picture a situation where the main parties have been largely ignored or derided, and there are no other large groups of people discussing the future of Britain and how they should vote, but simply millions of angry, dejected individuals turning up at the ballot box, and something catches their eye or their mood – a particularly silly candidate who makes them laugh. In a moment of defiance, without thought or collaboration, those millions of unconnected individuals across the country voted 569 clowns into power.
A motley crew descended on Westminster, and although they were clowns, they weren’t stupid. In a nanosecond, they recognised a commonality, the opportunity to have some fun changing things. I haven’t the space here to list them all, but these are the names of nine key figures in a hastily-formed cabinet: Elizabeth the First of England, Grimaldi, St. Peter, Winston Churchill, Pythagoras, Pitt the Elderflower, Bismarck, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, and Matron. All were male, not through any intended chauvinism so much as the fact that this kind of tomfoolery tends to come from men, who are really naughty boys at heart. Four of the nine were, however, dressed as women.
There was instinctive resistance to calling themselves a Party. They had seen how loyalty to ‘the Party’ quickly superseded loyalty to the country. Someone suggested ‘Pastie’ but Grimaldi, who was obsessed with custard pies, proposed they call themselves the Pie. This was weird enough to capture the others’ approval, especially when Winston Churchill, master of the bon mot (and black, as you may have gathered from his first name), pointed out that ‘Pie’ was how some female Labour MPs pronounced ‘Party’ as a working-class affectation. Pythagoras insisted that it was shortened to the Pi.
Elizabeth the First of England – a man in full Elizabethan drag including the gouache make-up – was elected Prime Minister and driven to Buckingham Palace. Poor Charles, having lost his sense of humour many years previously, really wasn’t equipped to handle it. A constitutional crisis nearly ensued when Elizabeth insisted on being referred to as ‘Your Majesty’. After much awkwardness, they compromised on ‘Ma’am’. Something stirred in Charles, old memories of the Goons and Spike Milligan, the spell broke and he burst into laughter. In that moment he became a King.
Grimaldi was Chairman of the Pi. His brief was to ensure that no-one took themselves too seriously, a sort of latter-day memento mori. For this purpose, he had a ready supply of custard pies standing by. The first time a member got one in the face after a temporary attack of aberrative pomposity, an apoplectic Speaker raged against such abuse of the House’s good name, and promptly got one in the face himself. An old shire Tory, who’d somehow managed to retain his seat in the recent shock election, laughed so hard he expelled his catheter and peed himself naturally for the first time in nearly six years.
Bismarck became Chancellor of the Exchequer, getting the keys to Number 11 Clowning Street. He was perfectly aware that Bismarck had been Chancellor of Germany, and that wasn’t the same kind of Chancellor at all. But he remembered that Bismarck had been known as the Iron Chancellor, and he had long nurtured the desire to be known as the Ironing Chancellor. He claimed that such a nickname would move him closer to the common people – everyone understood the domestic chore of ironing. Closer colleagues would tell you, however, that really it was a desire to sport a bristling Prussian moustache and to wear a dress.
Certainly, this is how he always appeared in public and most significantly in Parliament. His budget speeches were conducted while ironing his clothes and hanging them up. They were what you would call conversational speeches, making every listener feel as though he was talking to them in their own scullery. ‘So, I said to the Prime Minister, I said, Elizabeth, I said, where do you think the money’s going to come from for that little venture. I mean, after all, it doesn’t grow on trees, does it?’
Frequently he would similarly use shopping analogies to make a point. And all the time you would hear the hiss of the steam iron, and a satisfied smile and sigh as each ironed garment was hung up on a little rack. A shopping basket replaced the red box, held up outside Number Eleven on budget day.
On this new Parliament’s first historic day, St. Peter had somehow gotten hold of the mace, and started waving it in a frenetic, papal manner, crying ‘Bless this House’, and then bursting into song:
‘Bless this house O Lord we pray; Make it safe by night and day;
Bless these walls so firm and stout, Keeping want and trouble out:
Bless the roof and chimneys tall, Let thy peace lie over all;
Bless this door, that it may prove ever open to joy and love.
Bless these windows shining bright, Letting in God’s heav’nly light;
Bless the hearth a’blazing there, with smoke ascending like a prayer;
Bless the folk who dwell within, keep them pure and free from sin;
Bless us all that we may be Fit O Lord to dwell with thee;
Bless us all that one day we May dwell O Lord with thee.’
Sung with great gusto, the problem was he had a tuneless voice, particularly excruciating when he missed that top note at the end. It became a regular ritual, however, rather like morning prayers, so the only way to deal with it was for everyone else to join in and try to drown him out.
As there was no ‘hearth a’blazing’, the only ‘smoke ascending’ was from the large cigars Churchill and Brunel shared in the House. Outraged at first, members confessed later to an atavistic feeling of comfort and confidence engendered by the temporary blue haze and the seductive smell.
Thus, humour returned to a land that had lost his way. And contrary to what some people think, humour never brings chaos. It goes hand-in-hand with common sense and the joy of being alive. Sometimes it takes a clown to remind us of that.
John Drewry has a background in marketing, owning and chairing an advertising agency for many years. He also holds an Equity card as a stage director and actor, and is Patron & Presenter for the Nursing Memorial Appeal.