Yvette Cooper – Carey Mulligan

Andy Burnham – Colin Farrell

Liz Kendall – Tina Fey

Jeremy Corbyn – Judi Dench

Tony Blair – himself

ACT 1, scene 1

Open on a working man’s social club, somewhere.

A man walks up to a jukebox and a track starts. It’s Life In A Northern Town by The Dream Academy.

The man walks up to the bar.

Burnham: “Gizza pint there la.”

Barman (Tony Blair impersonating Dirty Den with a clipped Cockney accent): “Usual bottle of hand-made craft ale, Andrew, my old china?”

Burnham: “Ya kiddin? Pinta mild, and make it warm la. And 3 bagsa pork scratchings.”

Barman: “Andrew, you can drop the heightened Scouse accent. Here’s your wasabi-coated pistachios.”

A woman dressed as a man walks in.

Corbyn: “Mint tea…on the rocks.”

Burnham: “Hey Corbo, what’s with the lashes?”

Corbyn: “Decided my campaign needed a little sexing up, so I got myself some falsies.”

Two more real women walk dressed as real women.

Kendall & Cooper: “Who’s calling us falsies?”

Burnham: “Easy tigers.”

Corbyn: “Tigresses. We’re an equal opportunities party, even when it comes to colloquialisms.”

Cooper: “Off the record, we’re not all equal.”

Kendall: “Speak for yourself Coopsy, I’m playing it straight. More than can be said for him.”

Corbyn: “Just what are you insinuating, Comrade Kendall?”

Cooper, Corbyn and Kendall start brawling.

Burnham climbs onto bar and starts to sing: You’ll Never Walk Alone

Blair, as Dirty Den, throws them all out.

Scene ends.

RUMP LIT (# 74,859)

Not quite what you’re thinking. As much as this article wants to rank the finest arses in history, it has another duty: to describe the role of the backside when it comes to writing. All but a micro-fraction of the world’s greatest novels were written in the seated position, yet we know nothing of the chairs they sat in, the slacks they wore, the cramp they fought off.

Comfort and clothing can define the rhythm of words (he says with his leaden butt sunk into a Moshi Monster beanbag, contorting the spine and distorting the story as every single polystyrene bead shifts to add its clout to the output).

Is a backrest essential or can a writer write on/from a stool? The standing novelist needs a wall to lean against. The naked writer needs a draught-free room in which to write.

My wife once got spots on her bottom from too many hours on a beaten up chair designing complex designs. Did Joyce develop piles? Does Mantel wear anti-embolism tights? Will Will Self self-harm for the good of a book? Nothing meaty worth reading was written without some kind of sacrifice.

So, short of hammering 6 inch panel pins up through your seat to feel like a fakir and not a faker, decide on what to wear and where to sit before you start on your own War and Peace.