Bistophobia strikes fear at the hearts of soon-to-be ex-MPs

Smells like...victory

Citizen Cuddis goes behind the scenes at the Collider

Boffins at the Heedrum Hodrum Collider’s Institute of Political Psychiatry have come up with an explanation for the sub-prime hysteria unfolding along the cloisters of Westminster like a Mexican wave at a Cowdenbeath away game.

The Institute’s Professor Klaus Vier told reporters earlier today:

“We’re calling it Bisto-phobia—a fear of being slung off the gravy train and tumbling arse over tit down the embankment of electoral doom into the jabby nettles of political oblivion.”

Smell something ?
Seriously, can you smell something ?

One tell-tale symptom of the condition appears to be the sudden high frequency oscillation of the sufferer’s rectal sphincter.

You’d have to look to the tweeter on a 300 watt Bang and Olufsen loudspeaker to get close to these frequencies—ultrasonic squeaks that have been driving the pipistrelles in our animal lab, quite literally batshit.”

Professor Vier’s team has discovered that the greater the volume of votes migrating from Labour to the SNP, the higher the frequency of the trouser trumpeting.

“The Labour vote is collapsing,” says professor Vier. “The eggheads in our Electoral Arithmetic Unit estimate that by the time East Renfrewshire’s returning officer tells Jim Murphy his tea’s oot, his butt will be sonically capable of shattering a crystal decanter in the House of Commons bar without leaving his constituency office.

It appears also that bisto-phobics are prone to auditory hallucinations. While canvassing on the doorstep they tend to hear things that were never actually said. Later, they repeat what was never actually said to people who don’t want to hear it. The people who don’t want to hear it re-package the content to suit their own agendas before firing it at the electorate via the cathode ray tube or it’s modern equivalent.

You've just arrived in time for a cuppa. Come on in. I'd love to hear all about Jesus!  What? You've been sent by Brother Jim?? Get out of here this minute!
You’ve just arrived in time for a cuppa. Come on in. I’d love to hear all about Jesus!
What? You’ve been sent by Brother Jim?? Get out of here this minute!

Data also suggest that many bisto-phobics are hung-parliament deniers. They claim that left-of-centre faerie folk flitting through the forest canopies on their gossamer chariots whisper promises to them of an outright majority.

“I am sure you’d rather invite a cabal of Jehovah’s witnesses round for Sunday lunch than have a bistro-phobic occupy your doormat,” the professor continues.

“Yet I guarantee that those in marginal constituencies will have to work hard to prevent this from happening. Local politicians will soon be stampeding about a pedestrian precinct near you, shouting random sound bites in a display of political Tourette’s.

“In constituencies where the incumbent’s majority is less than six, footfall on doorsteps is likely to exceed that of the Debenhams’s January sale.”

What’s a voter to do?

“Build your defences”, suggests the professor, suggesting that you erect the hurricane shutters gathering dust in your garage. The hurricane shutters you were conned into buying while disembarking from last year’s Jamaican rum cruise with enough Bacardi inside you to flip a hippo on its back.

That done, nail all the windows shut, turn off the lights and hide behind the settee. If possible, adopt the airline safety practice of placing your head between your legs. Be very careful in the excitement of the moment not to try placing your head between someone else’s legs as this may lead to arrest.

Fetch the macaroni! Jim's trousers are parping like a brass band on speed...
Fetch the macaroni! Jim’s trousers are parping like a brass band on speed…

It’s not reasonable, however, to be a prisoner in your own home24/7. So if, in a moment of weakness, you open your door to fetch in the semi-skimmed for a mug of the mocha Java and there, blocking the morning sunlight, you find the holy triumvirate of the unelectable—Jim Murphy, the one that isn’t Jenny, and Magrit Curran, don’t panic. We all make mistakes. Carpe diem is your rallying cry here. You must act before Spud starts warbling on about the 1924 election or your semi-skimmed will have curdled before he stops shouting.

Do this: At the first sign of the conversation drifting toward universal suffrage, grasp the waistband of Murphy’s trousers. Yank it toward you. Now, swiftly decant a cafeteria sized tray of steaming hot macaroni and cheese down Spud’s boxers. Retreat indoors sharpish like (remember to double-lock the door behind you).

When released from the Gonad Mishap Unit, Glasgow Royal – surely even now at risk from the SNP Government’s heartless maintenance of the NHS Scotland budget – Murphy will remain deluded enough to count you as a Labour convert. But it will be months before the smile subsides from your face.

"I'm not even in this one, it's no fair," says the one who isn't Jenny.
“I’m not even in this one, it’s no fair,” says the one who isn’t Jenny.

In summary, when doorstepped by a politician from a mainstream party, say nothing. About anything. To anyone. Ever. Relying on what you are promised on the doorstep may prove riskier than gambling your entire pension pot playing Texas Hold’em with a Columbian drug baron.

“We are hoping that the discovery of Bisto-phobia will pave the way for future gene therapies,” says professor Vier.

“We have already experimented by splicing Vlad the Impalers genes into Spud’s genome to see what happened but Vlad’s genes refused to form a test tube coalition on the grounds that the SPUD-1924 gene was too sociopathic to form the basis of a viable life-form.”

Based on a true story. Ed