“Why hellair, I’m sew frightfully gled you could awl make it, what-oh?”
The 3rd Baronet Swizzleton-Cockburn-Smythe adjusted his monocle and greeted the Labour club crew, who, by a happy coincidence, were also made up of tired, two-dimensional stereotypes. A member of the Labour club came forward, wiping his soot-blackened hands on his overalls. He doffed his hard hat, its lamp still aflame.
“Y’areet? Wor! By ‘eck man, its reet classy oop ‘ere. Sorry we’re leet but we ‘ad to come all the way cross toon like. Ah’ve ‘ad nowt to drink an’ ah’m canny thirsty, me.”
The members of OUCA and OULC took their seats, making an effort not to sit next to someone who shared their political views or genitalia. Tweed jackets and silk cravats mingled with jeans and t-shirts. The Labour girls were dressed much like the Labour boys, except without the unkempt beards. The conservative ladies wore cocktail dresses.
Conversations broke out. A girl was asked why she voted Conservative. “Father says I oughtn’t talk about politics.”
“Ach, ye must have some views o’ ye oon?”
“Actually, I mainly pour the Port.”
At another end of the table, a drunken OUCA member was trying to flirt with an attractive, if slightly prim, Labour girl.
“It’s just terrible how we consume so much in the West. We could learn a lot from indigenous peoples like the Inuit, who waste nothing, and who work together instead of pursuing private gain.”
“Yah. Totally. Yah.” The OUCA member nodded along at her earnest speech.
“Bankers should be taxed at 90 percent. The Big Society is a bourgeois conspiracy. Private education and private healthcare are a blight on society. Unhappiness, crime and disease are caused by disparities in wealth.”
“Mmm. Yah. Couldn’t agree more.”
“We need to abolish the monarchy…”
“I say, steady on! That’s Bolshevism. And that’s my Aunt’s second cousin you’re talking about.”
Someone chinked two glasses together and stood up. “Listen up cheps: here’s one for the gels. I sconce anyone who’s had a threesome or better!”
The Conservatives erupted in deep, bellowing guffaws. Everyone else looked faintly embarrassed. Now it was Labour’s turn. “I sconce anyone who’s a Blairite!” This was immediately met with the reply “I sconce Brownites!” The beardies fell into fits of laughter at this, and one girl nearly spilled her Guinness down her Che Guevara T-shirt.
The revels dragged on for some time, and a new spirit of cross-party co-operation and friendship was formed. That is, until the bill came.
“Alreet, ah say it’d be champion if we split the bill evenly. It’s the oonly fair way, like.”
“But I only had salad. He had two curries, bhajees and pakoras!”
“Why don’t we just pay for what we ate?”
“Oh. I see what you’re saying. Just because you have more money than me you should be able to eat more? Do you realise how fucking disgusting that is? I should not have to pay as much for the same thing as lord snooty over here.”
“How about the people with more money subsidise it for the rest of us?”
“What? Tories having to foot the bill for Labour excesses? Bloody typical!”
The argument went on for so long that the owner of Jamal’s put the bill on the slate. The rival clubs are currently disputing which one of them was responsible for the debt.