Not long ago Labour were thrown out of a nightclub having overspent and been unable to settle their bar tab. The Tories wanted to go drinking but didn’t have enough money to get in by themselves so reluctantly invited the Lib Dem freshers to join them. A lot of Lib Dems didn’t get on with the Tories and would have rather gone drinking with Labour, but they’d never been to a club before and were excited to be allowed in. Anyway, Labour were staggering towards a kebab shop and squabbling over whose fault it was.
UKIP disliked the fact that the club served foreign beer, but needed to get in and become regular patrons before they could force a change in supplier, but the golf club blazers and average age of the group meant they were turned away and instead retreated to the Red Lion pub around the corner.
The music is bumping, the drinks are flowing, the Tories and Lib Dems are nicely merry, and there’s even a rumour that a couple are copping off together on the smoking balcony.
But before long some of the older Tories start insisting the whole group start doing shots, because “that’s what you do” in a club. The shots are a lot harsher than a lot of Lib Dems are used to and some start to wonder if this was a good idea, but are told by their mates “we’ve paid to get in now, we might as well”. Some Lib Dems hold their own, some chunder, and the shot-instigating Tories mutter they should never have let the kids tag along.
By this time Labour have sobered up just enough to be able to pass themselves off as responsible and want to get back into the club, but the bouncers recognise them and are a bit wary.
Out of nowhere the SNP turn up on the back of an all-day session in the Northern Quarter and want to finish the night off in the club. In the queue outside Nicola starts clumsily flirting with Ed who does a not very convincing job of playing hard to get. Both know they’re far more likely to get into the club as a couple.
UKIP have nipped home for a change of clothes, clothes that look suspiciously like what the Tories wore in the 80s and what Labour wore in the 60s, but somehow manages to pull it off.
The Greens have left the comfort of their hipster bar, serving mango and nettle vodka from jam jars, and now want to go clubbing… ironically, of course.
It’s now 01:30 and a handful of Tories and Lib Dems have nipped out for a smoke and to check their phones. There’s no signal in the club and nobody inside ever quite knows what’s happening outside. As well as the unwelcome and slightly nauseating hit of fresh air, they’re confronted with the four groups all heading for the entrance to the club.
Nigel spots David and accuses him of stealing his clothes, stopping only to wink at some of the older Labour members then staggering from the left and right while lighting a cigarette.
The Greens have stopped to pick up litter while Caroline has convinced Natalie to use her Australian accent to pretend to be a barmaid to get herself in through the staff entrance.
Labour aren’t as sober as they thought they were after being propped up by an insufferably cheerful SNP on the promise of free drinks from Labour once they passed the doormen.
Nick is carrying his shoes and tearfully drunk dialling anybody in his phone book who’ll still answer him hoping to get a lift home having spent everything he had in the club.
Inside the club the besieged Tories and dwindling Lib Dems are frantically trying to get one last round in before the inevitable scrum for painfully few number of taxis parked outside.
Through all this George Galloway hasn’t moved from his bar stool and is insisting the entire debacle is somehow Israel’s fault.