Twas the night before Christmas, and a stirring pierced the chill air outside of the Chamber of Commerce as a young army wife carrying a young child approached the Prime Minister.
"Please Sir," ventured the woman, "My husband is in Iraq and on the matter of Christmas . . ."
"Bah!" interjected Brown. "Humbug! He will pass the period over Christmas fighting to make us all safe from those Al Queada types we filled their country with."
"But we are his family . . ." persisted the mother.
"We shall mark Christmas my way" bellowed Gordon. "and that is an end to it. Be gone"
And so it seemed until Brown's passage to his bullet proof Jaguar was impeded by a hideous apparition. "Margaret Thatcher" he whispered, "What dost thou want with me?"
"Three spirits shall visit you this night," intoned the repulsive spectre. "Heed them, if you persist in this refusal to embody the spirit of empathy, you shall suffer my fate of dragging your baffling decisions behind you on a heavy chain as you are removed sobbing from office.
"Be gone" shouted Gordon, concluding he must have eaten too many mince pies and returning home to settle into as deep a sleep as a man who had just lost 25m peoples tax records possibly could.
On the stroke of midnight the curtains of his bed were drawn aside.
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," replied this vision in the guise of Winston Churchill. The room dissolved, and they came upon a once-familiar scene. "Edinburgh University" gasped Brown.
"Yes," intoned the spirit. "But though it be Christmas, the place is not quite empty. Who is this, hunched over his tattered copy of Das Kapital, dreaming of establishing Socialism in Dunfermline?"
"Haunt me no longer!" wailed a stricken Gordon as the ghost melted away.
Dong! On the stroke of one, Gordon came upon a rotund, John Prescott trying to pick egg shell out of his hair.
"I am the Spirit of Christmas Present," laughed this vision, "Come, let us press our ears to a cabinet meeting and observe your friends plotting to replace you."
"But who is that?" asked Gordy, pointing to a little fellow alone in the corner studying a map of the Occupied Territories.
"That is Tiny Tony," sighed the spirit. "He suffers from illusions of grandeur."
"But tell me he will overcome it," pleaded Brown.
"I cannot" came the sad reply.
"Be gone!" wailed the Prime Minister.
Dong! Dong! Two o'clock, and the final visitor appeared shrouded in a deep black garment that concealed its face, nothing of it was visible save one outstretched hand.
"Rupert Murdoch" whispered a terrified Gordon. "Are you the Spirit of Christmas Yet To Come?" The figure nodded.
"Lead on..." he murmured. With a jab of its bony finger, the spirit flicked the
television set to Sky News. A ticker ran across the bottom of the screen.
"Labour Party: there will be no mourners for him," ran the ticker. "He was even worse than Tony Blair."
"No!" wailed Brown. "Worse than Blair! I am finally persuaded! Oh spirits, i will not shut out the lessons that you teach. Oh, tell me I may wipe away the writing on this ticker!"
And that is the story of how Gordon Brown stopped being such a Bush toadying liability. He was out after the next election, of course, but that is another story.