An open letter to all potential Prime Ministers

Written By: Cambridge Junk

As I make my decision on who to vote for in the 2015 elections of Great Britain, I can’t help but cast my mind back to the pictures and column-inches devoted to your kitchens – at your homes – where you cook.

I don’t wish to know about your kitchen. In fact I don’t really want you to have a kitchen. I don’t want you to be wasting time by doing something even remotely as mortal as eating. I may imagine to myself that you have an egg cooked, just right, at the stroke of midnight, by an albino dwarf who serves it to you on slices of bread intricately shaped like the British Isles – but leave that up to me.

In fact I don’t really want you to sleep either, or have ‘fun’. I want you to literally shit miracles. I want you spit wealth and sweat health across our green land, and if you ever vomit it should be because you’ve been gorging on our enemies, and on the causes of terminal illness, and on those that perpetuate world poverty.
I want you to start the day with a falling-down press-up and be able to speak 18 different languages – at the same time.
I want you to be infallible, above reproach, gloriously enigmatic, and as tough as a slab of laminated Chuck Norris.
I want cures for cancer to drip from your nose and your scabs to bear philosophical texts and life changing poetry. I want you to be magnificent; so incredibly, mesmerizingly, tantalisingly, inconceivably, impossibly and utterly amazing that if I met you in the flesh I would get an erection so large, it would staple my face to the moon.

I don’t want to know where you cook your fucking crumpets!

All the best

Haydn Thorne (Editor)


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