What does the average bloke do if his significant other has gone out for the morning, and he finds himself alone in the house with a few hours to kill? In my experience, he will usually occupy himself by rifling through her underwear drawer, and probably end up making a mess all over the place which he won’t have the wits or ability to clear up properly and will therefore blame on some improbable accident involving copydex, or some other light adhesive.
Well Steven Milligan might have been a well known political commentator who had worked for Radio 4, The Economist, and the Sunday Times, and had recently become the Tory MP for Eastleigh in Hampshire, but he was no different to the rest of them. The filthy so and so.
On the morning of February 7th 1994′ Stephen’s girlfriend, Julie, had gone out. Maybe to launder some parliamentary expenses mony, who knows? But the minute she walked out of the door, he was stripped naked and trying on a pair of her stockings and suspenders. For most blokes, that would probably have been enough, they would have done what they had to do, got dressed again, and put the ruddy television on or something. But not Stephen. He had to take things that little bit further, so he tied some electrical cable around his neck and down to his ankles, stood on a wobbly table, shoved an orange in his mouth, put a bin liner over his head, and started fiddling with himself. Unfortunately, at some point in all this shenanigans, he choked to ruddy death. All I can say is, it takes all kinds to make a world doesn’t it!
It was a bit of a problem for the prime minister though. He had been rattling on about “back to basics” “morality” and “family values” for a while at that point, and ever since he had started on such themes, his ministers and MPs had done little else but get caught behaving in ways that made them look like such values were the last things on their mind. If they weren’t being caught with their trousers down with other people’s wives, or rent boys, or whatever, they were taking bribes to influence their parliamentary dealings. Even Major himself had been mucking about with that egg woman, although nobody knew about that at the time. Still all that was almost understandable to many people. But not choking yourself to death in stockings and suspenders whilst bashing your ruddy bishop.
Apparently they called it Auto Erotic Axminsteration, and it had been popular amongst Tory Politicians since the days of William Pitt the Younger, but they had managed to keep the details out of the papers until then. But everyone knew about it after Stephen Milligan, and ever since then, all new leaders of the Tory party have had to swear a solemn oath that they won’t ever try it. Of course, this doesn’t mean that they are not ruddy filthy so and so’s. They don’t have to make any promises about Paraphilic Infantilism, Coprophilia or Pony Play. If they did, The Lord alone knows who they would have left to lead the party. They would probably have to bite the bullet and go for a woman again.