An Economic Forecast of Ponies
Ed Balls swore violently as a London black cab swerved in front of him, missing the front of his Mercedes estate by a matter of inches. All around him, the cars of dreary old bankers and high-flying businessmen sounded their horns angrily, hoping their sheer collective force of disapproval would shift the traffic jam. Of course, Prince Charles didn't give a fuck that his peasant-hauled chariot was clogging up the Westminister one-way network, but that's the Royal Family for you. As if to make matters worse, the British skies opened to flood the busy street with a veritable monsoon of drizzling rain. The chancellor smiled as he tried to block out the cacaphony of car horns and purring engines. This was his big day.
In the passenger seat next to him rested a small, black briefcase. A rather unassuming object, but it was packed to the brim with notes, photographs, statistics, his lunch, and a dossier of nasty little secrets that would be sure to cast a dark shadow over Osborne's day. That Conservative bastard was going to suffer for everything he'd done to Balls. Like... flirting with that hot piece of skirt from the Home Office. He'd had his eye on Theresa May for months now, and that self-serving wanker had waltzed straight in at the Annual Parliamentary cricket match and given her the eyebrow. When Osborne's career was in ruins, he'd be sure to shave that eyebrow off. It was the eyebrow that had been raised more times than Cameron had been fellated by the British Banking Association, and the eyebow worked every time. He wanted the last sausage at the Christmas Ball? The eyebrow would raise so high when Balls even dared to dart forwards with his fork that the shadow chancellor would be compulsed to set his cutlery down and glare at the man with a mixture of disdain and loathing.
"Shift yer arse, yer berk!" Some Cockney cabbie was yelling from behind, his mop of violently ginger hair blasted by the wind as he gave Balls the two-fingered salute, smirking. Ed slammed his automatic into 'D', blasting off in a gentle hum of electricity-assisted forward momentum. That'd show the pikey. After a few minutes of gliding through the dull Westminister streets, he began to near Downing Street. His lips moistened with glee, and his eyes glinted with an uncanny mixture of excitement and confusion. A traffic diversion was set up in the street, crudely painted with '2013 Bujet, Shif' Lef''. Hmm, looked like a Liberal trick to throw him off, but it'd take more than the Coalition press office to make him miss his appointment! He sailed past, smirking with satisfaction. Today, all the chips were stacked in his favour!
As he pulled into the road adjacent to Downing Street, he looked up with confusion. There in the middle of the road was Ed Miliband! "W-wha..." he stuttered in confusion, slamming on the brakes. His car gently shuddered to a halt. Ed hurried forward, motioning for Ed to roll down his window. Ed complied, and Ed (The other Ed, not the Ed talking to the Ed, you see) crammed his face into the car.
"Ed, thank fuck you're here! Nothing's been confirmed yet, but word is that Nick Clegg found his way into Parliament! We've moved the Budget meeting to the Gherkin, but you're going to be late if you don't hurry over there. Didn't you see the sign? We can only keep Nick contained for so long before he figures out that he's locked in Cameron's office, but it should be long enough. I understand from your department that you're smashing Osborne's career with your statement, but that's not going to be enough. We need you to go deep, Balls. We need you, Balls, deep in the shit and failures of Osborne that he's reduced to a blubbering wreck. We need you to..." Ed paused, glancing up and over Balls.
"Absolutely, Ed! Ed's betting a lot on this, so make us proud!" David Miliband said excitedly from the other window, which was now open. Huh. Ed looked up at the other Miliband brother, and then back to Ed.
"Remember, if you see Nick, tell him there's a conference in the Thames."
"That ought to fool the idiot," the two brothers finished in unison, grinning at each other.
Ed Balls sighed, reversing out of the street. He sped up as he entered the financial heart of London. The worst he'd run over would be an accountant or, at best, an accountant. He hated accountants. He was an economic advisor, not a rank-and-file money-grabbing accountant. He was stylish with his budgets. He'd never seen a filthy accountant write an economic forecast with the amount of flair he did. 'Fucking stupid titty-arsed, ballsack-licking, pube-sniffing, mother-fucking, wank-faced sons of two-pound whores, all of them, he thought smugly. In fact, he was almost so distracted by his thoughts that he barely noticed Danny Alexander rise from the back seats like a ghost.
"Any final words, motherfucker?" laughed the Chief Secretary, pointing a Glock at the back of Ed's head. Instead of responding with a balls-oriented pun as his brain was screaming to him, the chancellor slammed the car into 'R' and span the driving wheel! The effect was immediate. Danny fired, blasting a chunk out of the laminated windscreen.
