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I outlayed the post-election debacle, similar to everybody else, glued to the television. I was shocked that I competence miss Adam Boulton kick a man to genocide and there was the consistent risk of blank an additional Gordon Brown (remember him) resign. Every time the lectern was placed in front of No 10 we would competition behind from the kitchen, Pot Noodle in hand, ready for action.
Of march the headlines I unequivocally longed for to see never essentially happened. I longed for Brown to glue the thatch and afterwards mount on to the No 10 roof tiles tiles with a shotgun and begin blustering afar at the Sky News copter. Aided by his comrade-in-arms Ross Kemp, he would conduct to keep everybody at brook until a exposed Kay Burley abseiled on to the roof tiles tiles with a blade in between her teeth. Meanwhile, down below, Boulton would lead an entrance group in to the construction where he would set about waterboarding Alastair Campbell in the Cabinet room.
Eventually I sleepy of examination from a distance. I packaged my bag and set off for London to be a bloc tourist. Soon I found myself on College Green enjoying the roughly fair ambience that is a rolling headlines domestic event. For the domestic anorak it was similar to Glastonbury "Oh look, theres Michael Heseltine. All right, Hezza?" It was a safari by the domestic past, spotting the grand old beasts of yore ooh, stand in whammy Neil Kinnock and Ann Widdecombe.
I was gratified to see that I have at slightest left one impress on the British domestic scene. In the late Nineties I outlayed a lot of time rowdiness around in the credentials of live broadcasts from the Green during the John Major abdication fiasco. We had a squad of Mexicans who claimed to be "Miguel", Portillos cousins who had come over to await his care bid. The Mexicans would dance and have lots of sound and were a charming further to the chaos.
For a whilst I wandered about ready to go as a duck that would continually be seen swigging from a bottle of Scotch prior to collapsing. I cant recollect what the comedic point of this was but it dumbfounded Michael Ancram sufficient for him to suggest, mid-interview with Adam Boulton, that an ambulance be called.
We incited up at the subsequent turn of votes a integrate of days after to find that the broadcasters had attempted to stymie us by putting up scaffolding on that they had put platforms. The thought was that they could still get their credentials of Big Ben but but any dancing Mexicans. We had to think fast. We called a internal propagandize of behaving humanities and asked if they had any acrobats? They did.
Two hours after viewers were dismayed to see initial the head and afterwards the somewhat unsafe physique of a Mexican crop up on screen. He was at the tip of utterly an considerable human pyramid. This was the last straw, the military were called and we were removed. This time the platforms were most some-more elaborate. The BBC bid resembled a little sort of creepy black authority centre. It had coloured windows and presumably a integrate of laser guns scanning the area.
I walked on past College Green and up Whitehall. As I approached Downing Street, Newsnights proprietor terrier Michael Crick roared past me in prohibited office of William Hague. Meanwhile, outward the gates the military had cordoned off an area underneath a tree. Some anti-war protesters had climbed up and were conducting a tree-in. One of them speckled me and proposed shouting: "Hello, I"m in Downing Street. Its rubbish!"
I changed on, somewhat embarrassed. He was wrong though, it wasnt rubbish: it was the full unusual playground of the democracy in action.
More from Dom Joly
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