If I were Prime Minister: I'd give tax cuts to the rich, keep Trident, and get my football team wrong

Our series in the run-up to the General Election – 100 days, 100 contributors, but no politicians – continues with the comedian

Of course, it's hard to get interested in the whole idea of government. Nothing ever changes, especially people saying “nothing ever changes”, despite the fact their kid now has a free nursery place and their aunt was forced to work despite having dementia.

There are a lot of problems with democracy. We need to think about how to find the people most qualified for the job. What we do now is the equivalent of taking the genius most likely to cure cancer and making her stand in front of crisp munching shoppers in a variety of brightly coloured suits, only to have them all choose the angry bloke on the telly who says cancer is caused by the closure of country pubs.

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Still, if elected I'd start by giving tax breaks to the rich, because it's a good way to get money to the poor. Think about it – a rich person spends £30 on a taxi journey. Give them more tax breaks and instead of taking a single cab they’ll hire two, three or four. It’s just basic economics.

I'd keep Trident too. Even though there are only a couple of bits of Britain that Russia might want - and they've already bought them – I'd want the subs in case they decided that Kensington and Chelsea aren't enough and they need to have Barnsley as well.

Naturally I wouldn't be able to work with any party that wanted to break up the United Kingdom. I would try to keep Britain united by not talking to the elected representatives of one of the countries. I would make this clear with my campaign slogan “In the Interests of Unity, Fuck Off”.

Of course, I would get my football team wrong and laugh it off. Then I would say that the whole election was about my career and laugh that off as a Freudian slut. Sorry, I mean slit. Claim to be Dutch. Laugh off.

Then I would insinuate that my premiership would usher in The Age of R'yleth, the Drowned God and laugh it off, but not in my own voice, in a sort of blasphemous howl that conjured the image of eternal death in a room without angles. I would unveil my vision carved on an obsidian Obelisk raised in the garden of Number 10 without planning permission: “I promise that we will be the first generation where babies are routinely woken by their parent’s nocturnal screams”.

I would turn up at a different football ground every Saturday, screaming my furious support for the home side. My eyes would turn completely black as my piercing cries shook the stadium, and any side with my support would always win by at least a dozen goals.

Frankie Boyle’s Election Autopsy will be available on BBC iPlayer from 17th May.

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