In Which I Dream Of Politics and Foul Mouthed Nannies

I no longer have political dreams. There was a time when I lived by the Westminster clock; from the early morning when I'd gently rub myself in front of a picture of Margaret Thatcher, to the long nights when I'd sing along to the latest Neil Kinnock LP. I had (and have) no political affiliation beyond the fact that I loved the lot of them. Vain, preening, full of their own self-importance: politicians seemed to represent everything I loved about myself. They were also likely to put a few extras quid on the expense account, which I personally took as proof that we’d voted for rational human beings much like ourselves.

Pretty much the same is true of Mary Poppins. Judy Andrews always represented the Richard Madeley that had gone into the business of social care rather than journalism. Though she wasn’t a Romford lad, she was honest and down-to-earth, in addition to which, I always fancied flying by umbrella and wearing button up high heel boots with heavy duty child-friendly dresses. That, however, is a story for another day... All these things were rattling around my brain when I went to sleep last night. They explain the dream I had.

I suppose it was really more of a nightmare, partly brought on by a reheated chicken curry I had for supper while watching a Sky News report about Caroline Spelman's nanny. In the dream, Gordon Brown appeared floating outside my window dressed like Julie Andrews. He was clutching a bag of knitting in one hand as he held onto the umbrella with the other.

‘Well, hello,’ he said in that deep voice he has. ‘I’m your new nanny. Gordon Popinions.’

‘You’re a bit heavy to be floating outside my window,’ said the dream Madeley. ‘And aren’t you a bit too male to be called yourself a nanny?’

‘My government is proud of the real achievements we have made in making it possible for people from all sections of the British people to feel so helpless that they’ll now take the jobs that previously went to Polish immigrants.’

‘So that’s why you're outside the window?’ I could see his point. He clearly needed the money. However, I also had needs that required satisfying. ‘I had been hoping for something Swedish,' I admitted. 'Something like an au-pair, perhaps. Heavy on the pair...’ As you can see, the dream Madeley had none of my wit.

‘So, do I get the job?’ asked Gordon, trying to rearrange his moobs so that he might show them to their best advantage. ‘I’ve got a spoonful of sugar that’ll help the medicine go down. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll bribe you with a tax cut before the next general election. Would you like me to sing you a cockney song involving Pearly kings and queens?’ At this point he began to sing 'Feed the Birds (Tuppence a Bag)' and I mentioned that with food prices, it would hardly be tuppence.

At this point, Gordon's face clouded. 'Why don't you just go and **** yourself and **** three *** up your **** **** and **** it with a *****?' he said.

I closed the window. It wasn't the abuse being hurled at me by our prime minister dressed as a woman and floating outside my window that did it. Even in my dreams, thoughts of things Swedish had taken over. For the rest of the night I'd be occupied by far more salubrious activities involving Vanessa Feltz, the Swedish women’s netball team, and three dozen tubs of Bird’s custard.