Samantha Cameron, the wife of the Prime Minister invited me to 10 Downing Street tonight. I assumed that with all his other duties and the demands put on him by Foxy Foxy, David wasn't satisfying Sam Cam and so using her Prime Minister wife powers she'd called me and I'd have to do whatever she told me or be sent to the Tower. So I was a bit annoyed that when I got there there were about 100 other people along for the ride and in the brief period of time Sam was in the room she didn't even look at me, let alone say hello. She is playing hard to get, hoping her aloofness will intrigue me and make me hotter for her. And it has worked.
But it turned out that the gathering was to celebrate 60 years of SCOPE (formerly the Spastics Society) and that there was a possibility Sam had had no part in my inclusion on the guest list. She will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine. Don't tell my girlfriend. Or David Cameron. I don't know which is more likely to have me killed even for suggesting it. Given that my girlfriend looks like she's about to kill me for farting in my sleep (which I can't even control), my money is on her.
I was pretty excited to get to go to Downing Street though. I have walked past the security gates and the armed policemen many times and seen it on TV, but it was a bit of a thrill to have permission to go through those gates. I had to show my passport - like David Cameron lives in a different country. Which you might argue he does, right kids? Is this thing on?
I then had to go through security gates, where the staff were quite jolly and joking around, but that you suspected if you stepped out of line would be capable of leaping over the desk and breaking your neck in an instant. And their bonhomie was somewhat tempered by the fact that a few steps further on their were two policemen with machine guns.
I walked further up the tiny street to the famous door. There was a film crew standing opposite and a policemen outside and some excited middle-aged men exiting the building asking if they were allowed to take photos (only once the door was closed was the response). I headed in and was asked to leave my phone in a little pigeon hole in the lobby. There would be no photos or tweeting allowed inside.
I moved forwards passed another little reception room where I could have left my coat had I had one, on to the end of the corridor where there was a room of people. I was steered away from there, the man at the bottom of the stairs telling me that the SCOPE reception was upstairs. I don't know how he knew which one I was going to. But David Cameron had my phone now. He probably knew everything about me and had planted a chip inside it so he could track me in case my affair with Sam ever came to be.
I walked up the staircase with all the portraits of the Prime Ministers up it. There is also a painting by Lowry at the top of those stairs. I wondered if anyone would notice if I sneaked it out under my jacket. I decided against it. I bet they are wise to people nicking stuff there.
I hadn't intended to drink tonight as I didn't want to end up heckling Sam Cam (or snogging her) but after all that Downing Street has taken from us it only seemed right to get back as much as possible and I ended up having four or five glasses of wine and several canapes. It was a form of revolution. If the Bank of England goes down tomorrow it might be my fault. Whilst I enjoyed being in this historic building and looking at the portraits of Elizabeth I and other luminaries (it got me thinking that the person who had applied those paints had been standing right in front of the Virgin Queen - and now I was looking at the painting. I was one step removed from Liz.) There were lots of interesting people to chat to, people who work for SCOPE or who are patrons of the charity or who have been helped by their work. My connections with SCOPE are more down to chance than anything else. I wanted to run the Marathon, someone told me SCOPE would get me a place. I have no massive personal or familial connection. But over the years I have become a lot more involved in the issues that they deal with and I feel it has been fortuitous for me as a person to have chanced across them. Not only was I massively inspired by the kids at Ingfield school (
this day was one of the major turning points in my life) but I am also glad that I have been forced to consider the inequalities and injustices that society confers upon the disabled. I am proud to be playing a tiny part in assisting this charity and hopefully making other people think about these issues in the way I have. The speeches tonight were very inspirational. And once again I was forced to consider how short-sighted people are (no offence to those genuinely afflicted with short-sightedness - on second thoughts fuck you, you myopic twats: you will never be equal) about the fact that disability is going to affect us all in our lives either directly or indirectly and we should all be fighting for equality, access and visibility for all. But still the British public are more concerned with cruelty to animals than to human beings.
I managed to keep my mischief to a minimum, although I did get to go to the loo in a toilet just off an important looking meeting room with an imposing painting of Margaret Thatcher at one end. There were coffee cups on the table. Perhaps there had just been some important meeting in here. I had been on the look out for a souvenir, but rather than steal anything of value I decided to liberate a sugar cube from the politician fat cats and slipped it into my pocket. David Cameron has been made to pay. When he came down to get wine, canapes and sugar for his supper he would find there wasn't quite as much as he'd hoped for.
None of the hapless gun toting policemen had any idea what I had done. I escaped and there's no way they will ever find out about it. Ha ha ha. Take that, the system!
