Thatcher

Their eyes met across a crowded room. No, wait, that’s a lie again. They were at a meeting of the SOAS Conservative Society and, as you’d expect, the room was mostly empty apart from a couple of dickheads wearing red trousers (hardly a sartorially tasteful decision, all things considered).

There were very few Conservatives at SOAS - most of them had applied by accident, enticed by the old tree logo - and they were all gathered together to mourn the passing of the Iron Lady and celebrate all her glorious achievements.

This didn’t take long.

Soon enough, our Tory twosome were bored of the increasingly hysterical eulogies, and they quietly slipped off for a private meeting of the Pull-ingdon Club. As soon as they shut the door, he wanted to reach out and touch her breasts, which quivered behind her rather un-conservative clothing … but he restrained himself. Groping a woman he barely knew would be frightfully LibDem of him, and he never was a fan of the coalition.

“Ding dong!” he said, looking at her. “That’s a fine body you have there. You clearly weren’t affected by the milk scandal as a child.”

“Ding dong? Oh my god, you can’t say that!”, she replied, horrified. “Or at least, you can, but only in a news bulletin, and only for five seconds.”

“Oh. That’s not going to happen, then - you’ll be delighted to know that I last far longer than five seconds,” he said with a smirk.

“Well,” she said suggestively, “let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

Her hand slowly crept down his tweed jacket until it rested at the top of his red trousers. There, she toyed with the buttons of his fly, undoing them, then doing them, then undoing them again, so that like any Tory politician, he didn’t know if she was coming or going. He, at least, knew that he’d eventually be coming.

She smiled as she tentatively, teasingly, touched the tip of her tongue to the tip of his tip, the John Minor to his John Major.

“I’m going to go down on you like the Belgrano,” she whispered, and took his Tory todger all the way into her mouth. John Minor was getting Headwina, once again.

She certainly did go down like the Belgrano, and, just like the Belgrano, all he wanted was to help the semen escape.

“Treat my cock like Maggie treated the mining industry,” he groaned. “She knew just how to empty a shaft.”

She didn’t protest; just as Maggie loved the Poll Tax, she loved taxing his pole. With a cry of “Privatisation!”, he spilled forth his sexual rhetoric, and much like the nationalised services in the 1980s, she swallowed it whole.

He lay back for a while to savour the moment, and then put his red trousers back on. She looked at him quizzically.

“Going somewhere?”

“Err, yeah. Polo practice.”

“But what about me? Isn’t it my turn?”, she asked, gesturing at her own pubic thatch.

He looked at her disdainfully, as if what she had suggested was as unwelcome as a publicly-funded funeral.

“Your turn? You should know by now that the lady’s not for turning.”

As she watched him flounce off, she contemplated her lot. How typical, she thought. How predictably Tory. They’re always happy to take, but when it comes to giving to the needy (and she knew exactly what she needed), they’re not interested.

Still, she didn’t pursue him. She didn’t want to be labelled as a friends-with-benefits scrounger. Instead, she went and found the head of the SOAS LibDem Society, who was always desperate to please and would tailor himself perfectly to her man-ifesto. At least Dick Clegg was good for something.