Bedtime Stories With the Milibands

The scene starts in a leafy, well-to-do street in the fashionable part of Primrose Hill.  It is early evening and inside a large house, Ma Miliband (known as Marion Kozak in her local progressive Marxist cooperative collective) is reading a bedtime story.

The sound of a child's music box can be heard playing some dissonant, atonal, Marxist-inspired "tune" and two earnest boys are in bed listening attentively to their mother ...


MA MILIBAND
... and the peoples' warrior Gordon-the-Brown did bravely battle the big bad many-headed democratic monster but he was slain in a cowardly way by the nasty, capitalist, racist quislings.

There was great sorrow in La-La-Lab-Land and the good people of the Socialist tribe and the Tradunion tribe and the Internationalprogressivemarxist tribe and the Beebeecee tribe did rent their clothes and gnash their teeth at such terrible news ...

DAVE
Oh Mummeeee, Mummeee, that is a very sad story, it reminds me of that tale you told us about poor old peoples' hero Pol Pot. But please Mummee, I must know, do you still love me?

MA MILIBAND
Oh, my little bananakin, you are Mummy's special little banana and I shall always consider you in a special way. Here's a kiss from Mummy.

[sloppy wet kissing sound]

ED
Mummee, Mummee you still love me don't you? I am the new gang leader now, so you must love me more than David.

MA MILIBAND
Aaah, my little Red-Edikins. You are my favourite little progressive Marxist Leninist social democrat. Here let me give you a hug.

DAVE
Mummee, Mummee it's not fair! Today, Ed's friends, those stupid fat bullies Derek Simpson and Charlie Whelan rigged the Labour gang election at school and ... and (sob) ... and ... he got them to beat me up. Boo hoo waaaahh. It's really unfair, I want to own a left of centre progressive Marxist gang.

MA MILIBAND
Oh my poor little Bananakins don't cry. You must realise that there is no such thing as ownership but only responsible social democratic collective decision making and management by the workers' representatives. No-one "owns" a gang.

Now Redikins, say sorry to Bananakins for not following the agreed progressive social democratic procedures for the selection of the peoples' representatives.

ED
Oh, all right then, I hereby agree to issue a clarification statement which will comply with the recommendations of the workers' remediation committee in order to convey ...

MA MILIBAND
Oh how sweet my little Redikins, you can't even say a simple sorry in less than a thousand words. Daddy would be so proud of you.

ED
Mummee, Mummeee am I still a brilliant progressive Marxist? Do you love me more than Bananakins?

DAVE
Mummee, Mummee, that's not fair. You should love me more!

MA MILIBAND
Oh my little liebkins, don't fret so. Do you remember when we went with Daddy on those Workers' Revolutionary Party family picnics to Karl Marx's grave? Do you remember the long drawn out monologues he and Uncle Laski would deliver to us on modern Marxist Leninist progressivism?

Well during one of those afternoons he explained to us that there is no such thing as love in a progressive egalitarian society which is organised along Marxist Leninist principles. "Love" is just a nasty bourgeois capitalist concept that causes inequality, exploitation of the workers, poverty and war.

DAVE
Mummee! You used that nasty bourgeois word "family". Surely you mean "proletarian social unit"?

ED
Er .. Mummee, will you have a word with those nasty boys in the Blair gang, they've been telling stories about how I'm geeky and too old to be living at home with you Mummee.

MA MILIBAND
Oh don't be so silly Redikins, you're only 40 and Bananakins is only 45, you both need your Mummee to look after you.

Anyway it is time for sleepy time so I shall just turn the light out and say good night.

ED
Mummee, can I have my fluffy stuffed Lenin to hug in bed please?

MA MILIBAND
Yes my little darling ...

DAVE
Mummee, can I have my bedtime banana please?


... and so we leave the Miliband household to a peaceful night's sleep.

NEXT WEEK: we listen in to the bedtime goings on in a windswept, bare, grey house in the Scottish Lowlands in Fife as the carer Sarah Brown takes the hand of her Gordon and helps him waddle up the stairs to his cot, changes his nappy and makes sure he takes his medication before singing him to sleep.