So that’s that. The election wrapped up dramatically to reveal exactly what we were told was going to happen had happened but in dramatic circumstances. Jeremy Corbyn has won and lost. Theresa May lost and yet still won. Assuredly the most British of elections. And while nothing will rid the shame from Theresa Mays legacy, or the ‘little book of Chairman Mays slogans’ as it is now being published, we cannot ignore the fact that there is still a Conservative government clinging desperately to the helm. Propped up by the DUP whose acronym doesn’t quite go far enough – it should really be 10BC or FUKWITZ. Throughout the election the Tory press and government had advertised their strength, stability and leadership – after the shattering results of Thursday night and Friday morning we can wholeheartedly say that they have delivered none of the above, and yet we are in exactly the same position as before – or soon will be. We have a Government which will soon be led by an unelected leader, assuming May will resign which she surely must, leading us into Brexit negotiations whilst their party engages in infighting and smear tactics against a viable opposition. A purgatorial government salvaged by the DUP who have links to terrorism. The same government who branded Jeremy Corbyn a terrorist sympathizer.
Read: exasperation.
So, on the morning of the 9th, when I cycled from my flat towards my work, from somewhere near Baker St to High Street Kensington, I was surprised not to see the flags of House of Parliament at half mast, was this not the death of democracy? Should we not be mourning? It didn’t matter, I crossed the bridge  in Hyde Park quickly and ignored this little peculiarity. I was late so cycled quickly towards work.
As I crossed the road, a familiar face drifted past on a bike, I double-took and recognized the form of Peter Hitchins peddling slowly up the hill I was racing down, a bemused smirk on his face. No matter, I must get to work, and then to my appointment.
You see, the reason I was in such a rush to get to work was that I had a hospital appointment in the afternoon in Paddington and much to get on with in the mean time. Peter Hitchins or Union Jacks be damned.
I screeched into work with minutes to spare. Dripping with sweat I took my seat at my desk and began to tick off items from my to-do list. Looking out the window I saw the weather turn and turn again, perpetual Britannic spring fueled by Donald Trumps childhood tears. Before I knew it, the morning had slipped away and my rumbling belly was not shy of reminding me so. I grabbed my jacket and headphones and drifted out to the sound of the Beta Band. Before I could reward the calls of my audible stomach I had to attend my appointment.
Having left slightly later than anticipated I descended underground, to the cities depths, and traveled the short way from High Street Kensington up to Paddington. The jumpy ride on the circle line was more due to my nerves rather than the train, suspicion is everywhere in these desperate times and it only took a homeless man on the train shouting at his dog for me and a few others to leap up towards the exits. My hunger truly setting in after this faux-adrenaline jolt, I came again into the light and into Paddington.
The streets smelt of food, the globe had landed on a tube stop and left behind bad tourist mementos and good food. I gathered my bearings and strode quickly to the looming behemoth that is St Mary’s Hospital. As the rain spat down and I took a few wrong turns I found myself face to face with some ambivalent and unfortunate homeless people who had taken refuge under a flight of stairs, they glanced up at me as I glanced away, towards the map. The crack pipes and squalor were hard to ignore yet I seemed to be the only one who had seen them. I paced of glancing over my shoulder and then at my phone which had long ago replaced a watch. I should just make it on time, perhaps I should mention the homeless people to a policeman if I see one, in case they hurt themselves? Inside the hospital I glance up at signs and follow lines on the floor, frantic coming and going  and serene relief all share a lift up. The coughs and surfaces have me and others on edge. I enter a waiting room and am greeted by a pleasant calm man who oversees the room, a room which is too full and too busy, whose walls are lined with humans without a place to go. In an accent he tells me to take a seat, I walk back to find one and am waived to and smiled at by an elderly lady with a gash on her head, she is flanked by a trio of porters who appear ready and Spanish. After a few moments next to a child with an impressive phone I am called and taken through to a bare room with no lights on. The door is locked behind me and the nurse instructs me to drop my trousers and lay back. The lights are still not on and the natural light of the room seems to match the nurses scrubs through the filmed windows. A sterile dark in light blue.
I lay back and soon feel the cold gel oozing across by scrotum. My sense of humor is kept to myself and I take in the situation, holding my penis behind a personal curtain. I’m asked where the pain is and I instruct duly. After a root around and enough time for the gel to warm I’m told that my testes look fine and that nurse will report everything to the Dr. I use the gel towel sparingly as I’m aware of cutbacks but the gel is persistent, so much so that I query what its made of to the nurse.
I emerge from the dark room with my testicles slipping around in my undercarriage. The waiting room is as chaotic as before but with new occupants. I glance at the time and make my way outside, reaching for a hand sanitiser on the way out. It is empty and I start to worry. After the lift alongside too women who are cleaning with incredible headdresses and speaking a language I haven’t heard before and glancing at me frequently, I find another hand sanitiser – this one brings me some relief. Time wise I should be able to make it back to High Street Kensington and then eat. I hop on the bus this time and float above the streets where people are walking and living. The empty top-deck is filled by the happy mondays. I step off gingerly, wary that my wet crotch may spread or stick. In a daze I step into the path of a co-worker who hurries off and before I know it I’m ushered into the cue for a free treat from Whole Foods. I bemusedly carry the mango ball on a toothpick into the lobby which is shining with gold and marble. Each mystified step is met with another gorgeous human walking by with a curiously beautiful brown paper bag. There are tasters everywhere and I’m soon lost, walking through isles of chilled exotic beer and freshly cooked food. Out of the corner of my eye I see the face of Peter Hitchins eating a burrito, I turn to look and he’s gone. I turn again and this time I step onto an escalator which carries me beneath, into this wonderful labyrinth. The walls are adorned with health and fresh produce. I see fresh fish whose scale shine and light scent reminds me of the seaside. Beside them a case of butchered meats, I stare into the steak and quickly get lost in the marbling like you should with fine art. I pace back and forth through the isles, discovering a new wonder like some kind of crusaders. Honey from the Heathers of Scotland shine like gems. Grains from the world over, sit in vats like essential minerals for the would be alchemist. I turn again and infront of me is a glowing red pillar of biblical proportions. The light shimmers and dies on its surface and a handwritten scroll proclaims it to be a ‘Himilayan Salt Block’ worth ‘£35’. The salt dazzle me and I stagger slightly, resting my hand and hip behind me. I’m pulled, led back up the escalator. The hand rail releases me in the foyer again as a parade of hungry, nutritionally balanced models walk past. I turn in circles briefly, staring at each new mystery until I am awaken “Would you like any help, sir?”
I remove my headphones to see whether I’d heard correctly? No thank you, I’m ok. I reply with a stupefied grin. The amorphous assistant disappears into thin air and I’m left facing my reflection in a polished brass surface. My long hair and badly kept beard look slicker than ever and reach up to feel my face. My hair falls over my face and I return the headphones to my head and their invaluable position as hairband-come-entertainment. The stone roses cushion my ears and sign “Stop the world, I’m getting off.” I smirk and step forward and before I know it I’m stood outside. Transported suddenly back to the pavement. I glance at my phone and see the time. I rush past boots and grab a meal deal as I return to work. The face of Peter Hitchins somewhere among the crowd in a new fast food chain as I pace back devouring a sandwich and the best value meal deal on the high street.
I slump back to my desk and notice the rain and the sun and look at my phone, I have an appointment soon. I need to go to the doctor soon.

Perhaps on my over zealous, highly reflective cycle to work I was struck by a van or a bus or a lorry. Perhaps I’ve never awoken from the sleep of election night. Perhaps this is what a hung parliament truly is, a purgatory, between heaven and hell. The gloriousness of Whole foods, perfection and an extravagant all right for some attitude. The writhing pain of the hospital and those who truly govern it. The constant fight between cuts and investment. The rich and the poor. Seemingly that is what this election was about? The election that never ends as politicians still campaign and lie and scheme. That is our situation. Peter Hitchins and Purgatory.
The start of the fight back, the beginning of the end.
Incidentally, isn’t it funny how Purgatory sounds like Purge the Tories?

Anyway, I’m sure I have an appointment today…

Mr Hummels