George Osborne’s trousers

“The best prank ever,” Jez said, “was stealing Geoffrey Howe’s trousers when he was on his way to the Conservative Party Conference. That was just brilliant; the Chancellor of the Exchequer spent a week wandering around the party conference in his underpants.”

“I don’t think he spent the conference in his pants,” I said, “I’m pretty sure he borrowed trousers from somewhere.”

Jez ignored my scepticism, he was flapping his hands in excitement (something he was liable to do after a couple of spliffs). “Think of it AJ, if we blagged George Osborne’s trousers when he comes to Manchester next week. It’ll be great, he’ll be a chancellor presiding over economic disaster in his underpants. It’ll kill his career, people want their economy to be wrecked by someone in trousers, it’s a known fact.”

“It won’t be that easy Jez,” I cautioned, “Howe was on a sleeper train, he’d left his trousers on a hook by the door and forgot to lock it. London to Manchester is only a couple of hours, Osborne’ll keep his keks on the whole journey.”

“Yeah, but that won’t stop us will it.” I lost Jez for a while in a fit of cackling. “Let’s book ourselves on the Tory train, we’re going to make News at 10.”

I tried pointing out that he’d simply get a minion to fetch him a spare pair, but once enthused with a project Jez can’t be stopped.

We had no problem getting tickets for the Tory train, though we were in Plebeian class. The whole of the Tory party were crammed into First Class cabins, so we had Plebian class to ourselves. We even had a complementary plastic cup of dirty water each.

We found George Osborne’s cabin a few carriages down. “You distract him,” said Jez, “keep him talking and I’ll steal his trousers. He won’t notice a thing.”

I had no idea what I was going to say to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but I didn’t have time to protest, as Jez opened the cabin door and pushed me in.

“Hello,” I said, “I hope you don’t mind me intruding but I saw you and had to come and say hi. I’m a massive fan of your work.”

Mr Osborne lowered the magazine he was reading (Crisis! What Crisis? The magazine for recession deniers) and gave me a disbelieving stare.

“Really? I didn’t know I had any fans left.” He chuckled to himself at this comment, as if he found truth amusing.

“Yes, I heard you were coming back to Manchester. I can’t believe I’ve met you, I loved the Happy Mondays and everything.”

Mr Osborne looked confused.

“You are Bez aren’t you? Only I heard you were coming to plug your new autobiography. Can I get an autograph please.” I held out a copy of the Financial Times, which coincidentally had Bez’s picture on the front page.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he said, “I’m George Osborne, Chancellor of the Exchequer. I’m here to promote my laissez faire economic policies, not an autobiography about life in the music industry.”

“Well you couldn’t have chosen a better place to launch lazy economic policies,” I joked, “none of us would get out of bed without a serious cash consideration. Can I have your autograph anyway, I might be able to flog it on e-bay.”

He scribbled something illegible on Bez's picture. By this time Jez had already removed his trousers and was occupied painting stains on Osborne’s pants. I gestured for him to hurry up.

“Thanks again Bez,” I said, “great to see you back in the city. I’m glad you got over the whole drugs and drink thing.” I pretended I hadn’t noticed the suspicious line of white powder on the Chancellor’s table.

We ran back to our plebeian seats, Jez brandishing the trousers like a conquering flag. We waited until the train landed in Manchester and looked out, hoping to spot the trouserless Chancellor in the crowd.

“There he is,” said Jez.

Funny. Though a man in pants had just got off, it wasn’t George Osborne. “That’s not Osborne, that’s Jeremy Hunt, Culture Secretary.”

No sooner had I spoken than another trouserless man stepped onto the platform. “That’s not Osborne either,” said Jez, “that’s Patrick McLoughlin, the Chief Whip.”

We watched as more and more trouserless Tories climbed off the train; we recognised Chris Grayling, Lord Freud, Simon Burns as well as Cheryl Gillan and Teresa May. Eventually we spotted George Osborne, but by this time the platform was filled with Conservative Ministers, MPs, Peers and Councillors, every single one of them without trousers, skirts or kilts.

“What the hell?” I asked, “does this mean we didn’t need to steal his trousers after all, is it a trouser-free day or something.”

Jez was laughing gleefully. “Na. Na. Don’t you know what’s happened? While we were half inching Osborne’s trousers in every other carriage and cabin there was some other kid stealing the trousers of every other Tory. That’s the whole party, every single one of them.”

He was right, as he was speaking David Cameron walked past, wearing just a pair of bright blue boxer shorts. He was surrounded by a flock of minions, all similarly attired.

“This is dynamite,” said Jez, “not even the Tory press can gloss over this. It’s a PR nightmare, an entire political party caught with its trousers down.”

Later that day David Cameron addressed the party conference, still wearing only his bright Tory blue boxer.. “Some of the more scandalous press members,” he began, “are saying that the Tory party should be embarrassed at losing its trousers. I say to them that they’re the foolish ones for still wearing trousers. In this age of austerity the trouser is a luxury none of us can afford. By spurning trousers we have shown that we really are all in this together.”

This was greeted by great howls of approval by the conference delegates. The few people in the room with trousers on, mostly journalists and lobbyists, began to remove them, shamed by the extravagance of their clothing.

“Just to show how in this together we are,” Cameron continued, “the government will introduce legislation banning the wearing of trousers entirely.”

The media loved it, not even the Guardian could find it in their hearts to criticise the new policy. The Trousers (abolition etc) Act whizzed through parliament with barely any criticism.

It’s now three years since I’ve worn trousers, though I’ve still no idea what to do with my loose change. Southerners tend to carry man-bags, but that’s not really my style. Jez keeps his change in his foreskin.

The Tories are coming to Manchester again this year. Jez is most excited about it. “I’ve got a great idea for a prank,” he said. I decided to ignore him.