Really? Don’t women get patronised enough with pink gardening shears, pink screwdrivers, pink tool boxes, pink fizzy alco-pops, pink bloody everything?
This looks like the sort of van that goes round Freshers’ Fairs dishing out chlamydia testing kits and fruit flavoured condoms to 17 year olds.
I’m surprised there isn’t a rotating mirror ball on the roof, eyelashes on the headlamps and tinsel round the tyres. Does it fart glitter out of the exhaust pipe too?
What do you need a van for anyway? What’s inside it? Is it sparkly pink ballot slips to bribe us into voting for you? I’d like a silver, heart-shaped pen to go with mine, please. I know – you’ve got the Chippendales, in there haven’t you? You’re going to open the doors and they’ll come prancing out to form a human pyramid, all polished chests, sequinned mankinis and twirly nipple tassles. Then they’ll dance us all the way to the voting booth and show us which box to put the cross in because we’ve got too much pink candy floss between the ears to work it out for ourselves.
It’s a frivolous colour, pink. Not one you’d take seriously. Pink is the colour of baby doll nighties, of lolly pops, sweeties and ribbons. There are pink hair slides, pink toys, pink bedrooms. It’s the colour we give little girls.
A silly pink bus, even if you stuff it full of the Chippendales, isn’t enough to persuade me to vote for you.
I want to see the abolition of university tuition fees.
I’m shit scared about the gradual selling off of the NHS.
I want to see legislation to prevent corporate tax dodging.
I want to hear the end of playtime bell being run in the Bankers’ Playground.
I want an end to the monstrous regime that the Job Centre has become.
How about narrowing the humungous class divide we find ourselves in, so that food banks become a distant memory?
Harriet Harman, I heard you on the radio the other night discussing gender inequality. You spoke a lot of good sense. Carry on speaking good sense to the women voters you are trying to attract.
Don’t patronise us with pink.