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Row Britannia: The British Presidential election of 2010.
OOC: This is somewhat improvised, I’m sure it shows. I just wondered how an American style presidential campaign would play out in Britain.
December 5th 2008. Stonehouse Plymouth, Devon,
Anthony Charles Augustus "Tony" Parsons, eighth President of the Democratic Republic of Great Britain smiled to the gathered cameras and schoolchildren as they waved home made white, yellow and red flags. He approached the Scottish headmaster of Devonport secondary school, all jowls and greying hair and shook his hand. “A great pleasure seeing you again Mr Brown.” He grinned, he was known, for better or for worse, for his broad smile. “Pleasures all mine Mr President. And please, call me James, or Gordon,” “I’ll keep that in mind,” Blair said before posing for a few photos with the head teacher. He then finally turned to the children and waved them goodbye. Always prioritise the children. Education, education and education was the core slogan of his second term’s policies. Good strong patriotic Tory policies.
Blair got into his car after a final smile and wave, just knowing the flash of the cameras picked up every last wrinkle and crease on his face. He hated how he looked in those photos. Even if he could stand for a third term, he probably wouldn’t. He leant back in his chair and grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge. “Well that was dull,” he sighed. His aide looked to him “It was a safe event though. This is your big legacy tour and what’s better than a school?” “But that Brown, he’s a Democrat, and a scot.” Blair, said, his head back on the leather rest behind him. “Reaching across the gap to other parties and nations,” she was quick to reply. Blair didn’t reply and looked at her. “What is is Hazel? That’s your “I’ve got something to tell Tony but he probably wont like it” face.” Hazel adjusted herself in her seat. “Lucas has launched her campaign for Liberal presidential nomination,” she said calmly. Blair shrugged at this. “Well we knew she was going to,” Tony had long suspected that Caroline Lucas, leader of the Liberal party in the upper house and Parliamentary Senator, would launch her campaign sooner or later. “Well she’s the current lead, the only others for the Libs are a bunch of nobodies angling for a bit of promotion or a place in Lucas’ cabinet should she win. A whole bunch of farts like Lembi Opiks, short of a miracle, they’d die out within seconds and oh, just coincidentally tell their supporters to support the front runner, with a little grin on their faces and a begging bowl in their hands,” He massaged his forehead and went quiet. “Are you finished?” “Yes” he said from behind his hands. “Am I right in saying we’re done?” “Yes, Nothing until the conference with the Scottish Prime Minister on Friday.” she said as the car was joined by police bikes as it came out of the terraced streets of Devonport and headed along the South Plymouth bypass. The president looked out onto Plymouth sound, where the Americans had arrived to liberate England from the fascists, and if necessary, the soviets. Famous photos showed huge transport ships sailing in and planes landing at Mountbatten and Plymouth Hoe, now it was empty save for a cross Channel ferry to the sixth republic and a few pleasure craft. An annoying buzzing wormed its way into the president’s head. An angry man shouting about civil liberties and government plans. He knew this voice, it amused him. He turned to listen to it. “Ms Blears,” he said to his aide. “Do you have to spoil this view with that mad bastard with a microphone? I mean, he’s not even on the radio any more, you’re intentionally streaming that.” “Sorry Mr Blair,” she chuckled. “No, no, keep him on, he’s hilarious in a horrifying way. Maybe this will be the day he finally gets arrested for trying to blow up parliament or tops himself on air.” “Or announces he’s running for President,” Hazel laughed. “Dear god, vote Jeremy Clarkson, or black helicopters will abduct your children or sell your country to the Soviet Union or god knows that else,” they chuckled at the Right wing shock merchant’s online radio rants then went quiet, knowing somewhere rural, he probably had supporters, taking him on his word. They fell silent as the car wooshed its way to Plymouth train station.
---
The Offices of Ian Hislop MP, Swansea.
Ian Hisliop looked at the visitor. “Its stupid Louise, it’s just stupid.” “There is a lot of demand and growing all the time, people are really passionate about the idea of you being president! The civil libs hate Lucas’ stance on well, civil liberties and if Vince Cable runs people will be put of his age.” “So I’m the face of the young liberal republic am I?” he scoffed. “Also, how many of these are of voting age, let alone registered to vote?! Very few I’d reckon and I don’t reckon a few idle clicks and upvotes on GoogleLife” “We’d stress that in the campaign, register to vote, use your voice, mobilising popular opinion to support you, you’d come across as selfless too! A strong social media driven, populist campaign.” Hislop could see she wasn’t giving up. He sighed “I’ll consider it, Miss Bagshawe, I’ll consider it. “