Tory London Mayoral Hope 2000-2007

Tory London Mayoral Hope, the oft-thwarted Conservative wish to exercise control over the nation's capital, has expired unfulfilled with the news that journalist, MP and all-star celebrity foot-in-mouth champion Boris Johnson has been chosen to contest next year's London Mayoral elections.

Tory Mayoral Hope, born at the turn of the new century to anxious parents desperate for a healthy new child that would restore a crumb of their former glory, were raised as Steven Norris, the Barry White of the Conservative Party, went toe-to-toe with Labour's own Mayoral Hope, part-time Santa Claus impersonator, Frank Dobson for the shiny new position of Mayor of London.

Yet both hopes were to be dashed as they came up against London's ex-ruler, former Leader of the GLC and part-time herpetologist, Ken Livingstone. Though he had long wandered in the wilderness, writing restaurant columns for the London Evening Standard, after being expelled from the Labour Party he had now returned to claim what he saw as his birthright - the Overlordship of London. With the government's attempts to portray him as an evil newt-stroking villain, lodged in a secret bunker deep beneath County Hall succeeding in making him the most popular martyr in London since Wat Tyler, his victory was assured. As the votes were counted it soon became apparent that Dobson would have to return to his workshop at the North Pole and Norris's plans to emulate the late, great Whittington by "putting the Dick back into London" had detumesced along with Tory Mayoral Hope.

Meanwhile, safely installed in his giant newt-shaped offices on the South Bank, "Red" Ken quickly established himself as a man of the people - unless those people were reporters for the Evening Standard, people with an aversion to falling downstairs at parties, or drivers who wanted to drive through the centre of the city. All the while Tory Mayoral Hope lay dormant waiting for the next election when it would have a chance to field a new candidate against the mighty Ken.

But once again, in 2004, Hope was dashed as Jeffrey Archer was stabbed in the (very moley) back by a pesky perjury case. Reluctantly the Conservatives turned to Steven Norris to (quite literally) woo voters away from Ken. But Labour, increasingly brazen about choosing power over principles, brought Livingstone back into the bosom of the party and Norris (quite literally) limped away, defeated.

The failure of Tory Mayoral Hope left Ken free to implement his masterplan for London, which he continued to remodel in his image, culminating in his most audacious move - a plan to replace London's beloved red Routemaster buses with "the much more modern and efficient" bendy-buses: long and articulated, crawling through the city's bus lanes like... DUN-DUN-DA!!! ...giant red newts...

Despite the chaos and traffic jams caused by these monstrous reptiles, Tory Hope still foundered until new head boy, David Cameron took control of the party and launched a series of wizard wheezes to halt Ken's dastardly plan to turn London into a giant salamander. But his plan to poach former Director General of the BBC, Greg Dyke (after Greg had been grilled, stuffed and roasted by Alastair Campbell) as a Tory London Mayoral Hope backfired, as did his plans to champion Lord Coe, Lord Stevens and shock-jock Nick Ferrari - all of whom politely declined the offer of being the next big Tory Mayoral Hope as they were... erm... washing their hair that year.

And so it was that faced with the prospect of Steven Norris trolling round London kissing babes-in-(his)-arms, Cameron threw the nominations open to all - provided they were willing to fill up party coffers by making their vote via a premium rate phone-line⁽¹⁾. As seven million Londoners rushed to their phones to smash them against the wall in horror, 20,000 nominated Winston Churchill, the Easter Bunny and that really fit bird off that programme... you know the one... while 15,000 of them took leave of their senses and were seduced (possibly quite literally) by the banish bendy-buses banter of Tory Clown Prince, Boris Johnson. Boris immediately declared that "King Newt is dead" before accidentally sleeping with a woman who wasn't his wife, falling off his bicycle and choking on his own foot whilst presenting Have I Got News For You. And with that, Tory Mayoral Hope passed away.

Tory London Mayoral Hope will be buried in the 'king Boris Johnson Church of the Apology to Liverpool. The service will be conducted by Steven Norris (a lay minister) and the congregation will sing hymn 357, XTC's The Mayor of Simpleton.

⁽¹⁾ thus becoming the first Conservative leader to put in place a (literal) poll tax before even becoming Prime Minister.

The London 2012 Olympic Logo 2007-2007

Graphic designers are today weeping into their vodka and Red Bulls as they mark the passing of The London 2012 Olympic Logo, that astonishing piece of imagery which had briefly succeeded in uniting the nation ... in utter condemnation.

The Logo was the child of the middle-aged and besuited London Games Organising Committee⁽¹⁾ and dashing, Hoxton-finned, brand consultant Wolff Olins. The conception, it must be admitted, was not without attendant difficulties. For several months the committee lay back, thought of England and handed over hundreds of thousands of pounds, while the dashing Wolff tried everything from running things up flagpoles, pushing the envelope, thinking outside the box, leveraging its creativity, empowering its knowledge-base and fast-tracking its synergies. All was to no avail until Wolff briefly gave up its attempt to service the needs of the Committee, took a moment to stare out of the window and spotted a gang of hoodies incompetently spray-painting a Committee member's car with a pink swastika. Inspired, Wolff immediately called on the Committee to hand over £400,000 and bend over, before proceeding to give it what is usually termed "a right royal rogering".

After a short pregnancy, the Committee finally gave birth to the logo on 4 June 2007. The reaction to its appearance is perhaps best judged by the fact that the doctor overseeing the Logo's birth could only be restrained from his repeated attempts to slap it back into the womb by three hospital orderlies and a passing scrum-half. It was, in truth, an unlovely child, combining the graceful line of a tartrazined-up five-year-old's drawing, the delicate palette of one of Sir Elton John's stage outfits and the understated iconography of the Nazi party.

Such an ill-favoured infant could not be expected to have either a long or a successful life. When presented to the public it produced extraordinary displays of horror and disgust normally capable of being induced only by a Channel 4 documentary or showing Melanie Phillips a single mother. When presented to potential Olympic sponsors it resulted in the whittling down of their number to two graffiti-removal firms and a German-accented South American dentist going by the name of Diego Alfonso von Martin Bormann.

Yet the Logo might perhaps have struggled on even then, had it not been for experts warning that - in its animated form - it was capable of producing epileptic fits in those vulnerable to flashing images, and apoplectic fits in those who cared a damn about good design. Reluctantly, the Committee was forced to remove the Logo from its website.

The funeral for The London 2012 Olympic Logo will be held at St Sebastian Coe's Church of the Bleeding Disaster. The Reverend Tessa Jowell will read from an official advisory warning epileptics that the following funeral contains rapidly flashing images. The hymn will be number 728 "Dear Lord! They paid £400,000 for that?!!"

The London 2012 Olympic Logo will be buried under a vast petition calling for its immediate destruction. It is predeceased by the Olympic Spirit and several billion pounds.

⁽¹⁾ which has insisted that it's abbreviation should be Locog rather than Loco, at least proving that its members - contrary to popular opinion - are not completely stupid.

The 2012 British Olympic Spirit 2005-2007

The 2012 British Olympic Spirit was found dead this week in a partially built stadium on Hackney Marshes. Sources close to the Spirit say it had become increasingly worried after the estimated cost for the London Olympics more than trebled from £2.4bn to £9.3bn and have now risen so high that they have been selected for the Pole Vault squad.

The Spirit, the long-awaited offspring of Sebastian Coe and Tessa Jowell, was born amidst much fanfare and hoopla in July 2005 – although the fanfare and hoopla had less to do with the prospect of the nation being afforded an opportunity to display its sporting prowess to the rest of the globe and more to do with pipping the French bid at the post.

While other countries greet the prospect of hosting the Olympics as an occasion for national pride (not to mention a marvellous opportunity to rip off tourists), in ever-cheerful and optimistic Great Britain enthusiasm for the 2012 Olympic Games was, from the sound of the starting pistol, confined to construction firms and property developers gleefully shaking their heads, sucking in air and cackling, “That’s gonna cost you… We should be able to finish that by 2013… But we’ve got another job on down Wembley way…”.

With the Olympic ideal of the finest amateurs competing for nothing more than a crown of laurels and the approbation of their peers having long been replaced by the worst professionals incapable of organising a school sports day without forcing the parents to remortgage their homes and sell their kidneys, the Spirit - never strong - quickly began to wane. Rather than being galvanised into glorious action, across the land Britain's potential medal winners of the future chose instead to slump back in their sofas, turn on Richard and Judy and wonder vaguely if Citius, Altius and Fortius were three of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Attempts to consolidate all its debts into one manageable debt failed to halt the Olympic Spirit's decline. Despite plans to raise capital by introducing sponsored events including the 400m financial hurdles and the Snickers marathon, and London mayor Ken Livingstone’s plans to introduce a congestion charge for cyclists using the Olympic velodrome, the costs continued to spiral. The Spirit fell into a deeper, and deeper depression before, tragically, taking its own life, hanged by a genuine replica plastic Olympic gold medal bearing the legend “I Love the 2012 Olympics” (retail price £29.99).

The 2012 British Olympic Spirit will be buried in a pauper’s grave along with billions of taxpayers cash as construction firms and property developers dance ecstatically in a New Orleans-style celebration of the dead. It is survived by Ken Livingstone, Tessa Jowell and the knowledge that if the French had won they'd have done the whole thing with a lot more class and a lot less whinging.

As A Dodo small print: the cost of your Olympics may go up as well as up, and your home may be at risk if you do not keep up council tax repayments.

The Chelsea Tractor 1941-2006

This morning middle-class mums across West London eager to drop their youngest off at prep school before making the dash to Harvey Nicks for coffee and a natter - not to mention the vast majority of automobile-owning North Americans and Jeremy Clarkson - were united in mourning the untimely death of the Chelsea Tractor, "4x4", "SUV" or "4WD", the powerful beasts that once roamed roads across the globe and which, for many, came to epitomise strength, versatility and total disregard for the environment.

First sighted in the wild in the early 1940s and known at the time as "Jeeps", Chelsea Tractors were initially seen by the vast majority as untameable creatures, always given to scrambling up hillsides and along twisting jungle paths and frequently involved in scenes of battle, whether they be in Central Europe in the dying days of the Second World War or outside Loretta Switt's trailer in M*A*S*H that time Alan Alda accidentally drove over her foot.

Some of the first attempts to tame the Jeep were made in Britain. A careful programme of cross-breeding resulted in the production of the "Land Rover", a sturdy (if usually slow) creature which spent its time skittering up mountainsides and down into valleys from the Scottish Highlands to the Cornish Coast, usually with a sheep or two in the back and often a lonely shepherd in a mounting state of excitement in the front.

By the late 1960s and early 70s, the rugged 4x4s had become a familiar sight across the countryside, with some of the braver individuals even being sighted on the outskirts of towns and cities. A confident furture for the species seemed certain. But then came the oil crisis of 1973. With their favourite food stuff (top grade petroleum) growing scarce, many predicted the powerful, if sometimes ungainly, animals could go the way of the Dodo. However, thanks to careful nurturing, they were able to survive in isolated rural pockets, living off a diet of red diesel and the odd drop of four-star.

With the species' very survival under threat, top scientists at car manufacturers in America, Europe and Japan began selective breeding programmes. By the mid 1980's these programmes had borne fruit and the first Chelsea Tractors were able to be released into a new, safe environment - the city. Soon Chelsea Tractors were swarming over smog-filled traffic routes in urban centres the world over, braving hazards from speed bumps up to 5 centimetres high all the way to potholes up to 2 centimetres deep in their quest to carry little Julian from the front drive to soccer practice.

With the explosion of the species it could not be long before predators began to gather. Soon groups of environmental activists, teenagers eager for a cause and politicians eager to sweep up the green vote were seen gathering near the Chelsea Tractors' watering holes (or, as the locals know them "petrol" or "gas" "stations") and sniffing the air, before passing out due to all the fumes. Before long they took to setting up traps for the turbo-powered behemoths in the form of congestion charges and poisoning their food supply with green taxes.

By the mid-noughties, the Chelsea Tractor began to vanish from our streets. By the end there were only a few, unreliable sightings of the creatures - sometimes outside the palatial crib of an LA rapper, sometimes making the weary journey to Knightsbridge for the sales.

The Chelsea Tractor will be buried under a mountain of high petrol prices and increased environmental awareness. It is survived by an increasing number of erratic cyclists, scooters, bendy buses, the Smart car and trees.

The London Stock Exchange 1698-2006

Trust fund managers, brokers and merchant bankers across Britain momentarily turned their heads from their screens / clients / vast piles of money this morning, following the news of the death of the London Stock Exchange, which drowned in the Thames last night after dining with a group of well-connected Major Investment Banks.

The LSE was born in 1698 when one John Castaing, fired up by vast amounts of java, first pinned up a list of stock and commodity prices on the walls of Jonathan's Coffee House in London's Change Alley, with the aim of parting as many suckers as possible from their cash.

With its twin mottoes "My word is my bond" and "Your money is my money... and currently invested in an offshore intermediate revolving FOREX facility" the LSE was soon bestriding the financial world like the proverbial colossus, with those beneath it compelled to lift their gazes and contemplate the vast size and extreme goldenness of its twin fiscal spheres.

In the following years the LSE, red in tooth and braces, would become one of the world's most powerful financial forces, leading investors through South Sea Bubbles and Railway Mania to penury, while leading itself to vaster and vaster piles of money. By the early part of this century, those vast piles of money began to attract an increasing number of suitors. Gossip columnists noted that the ageing LSE was seen out with a different partner each night, showing its commodities off to Deutsche Boerse one evening, then flashing its sparkling derivatives at NASDAQ the next.

Such behaviour could not go unnoticed. Major Investment Banks which had long been associates of the LSE began to feel that their old friend, for whom they had done so much, was spending too much time gadding about and building up money piles and not enough showing them the respect they deserved. Attempts at reconciliation - including gifts of horses' heads - were made, the last of them occurring only on Tuesday night, when the Banks invited the LSE to dine with them. It appears that, clearly fearful of the current inclement weather, the LSE made the tragic mistake of wearing a concrete overcoat for its walk back from the restaurant along the Embankment, leading to inevitable tragedy when a pat on the back from several of its Bank pals caused it to fall into the river, where it drowned. The Banks made repeated attempts to rescue the LSE by dropping heavy metal chains on it and shooting it but all to no avail.

The London Stock Exchange will be buried at St Mammon's Church this weekend. Well-wishers are asked to send cash. The LSE is survived by the Major Investment Banks, their brand new European share market and vast piles of money.

London's Glittering West End 1663-2006

Doctors at St Larry's Hospital have confirmed that London's Glittering West End, known to friends as Theatreland, passed away this evening after being cruelly choked to death by a surfeit of film-to-stage transfers, musicals based on the back catalogues of 1970s pop groups and Andrew Lloyd-Webber.

Born in the aftermath of the Restoration to a fun-loving King Charles II, several playwrights and a large number of extremely willing actresses, London's Glittering West End soon developed into the theatrical centre of Britain ... as well as the scene of many encounters between the aforementioned fun-loving king and willing actresses.

Over the coming years Theatreland was to play host to a varied and astounding range of work from playwrights including Shakespeare, Shaw, Ibsen, Moliere, Pinter, Priestley and Beckett, and performances from such notables as Nell Gwynn, David Garrick, Sarah Bernhardt, Henry Irving, Laurence Olivier, Judi Dench, Peter O'Toole and several productions of Sir John Gielgud's Hamlet in local lavatory cubicles.

Despite its success, the years did not weigh easily on the West End. As time passed it began to suffer the inevitable ailments of age, its heart increasingly affected by fatty deposits of musical theatre. By the 1990s friends began to note that Theatreland's ability to keep up with current events was failing. Increasingly a shadow of its former self, London's Glittering West End became content to sit back and rock gently to the unthreatening strains of 1970's pop groups such as ABBA and Queen and ever more reliant on a diet of pre-digested Lion Kings, Producers and other film-to-stage transfers. Unable even to feed itself properly, it was eventually found choking on a mashed-up production of Dirty Dancing.

The funeral of London's Glittering West End will be attended by Andrew Lloyd-Webber, Ben Elton and several coach parties of confused pensioners under the impression they are at a performance of Les Miserables. Presiding vicar Cameron Mackintosh has confirmed that the ceremony will be in the best possible taste, the coffin being slowly lowered into its grave accompanied by a roller-skating tap routine and Michael Ball's rendition of Boney M's Ra-Ra-Rasputin. The final burial of the West End will take place on Friday, although doctors expect it to be revived in about 20 years time in a wave of ridiculous nostalgia for the noughties.

London's Glittering West End is survived by Andrew Lloyd-Webber, The Musical! (Book by Ben Elton, lyrics by Tim Rice and music by Puccini).