Monday

“Today,” I say, leaning forward towards the camera and doing my best messianic eyes, “I wanna talk to you about Monday. I wanna tell you what I believe about Monday, why I believe in Monday, and why I hope that Monday will believe in me. My daddy was a goatherd in Kenya. My mom, well, she was a white girl. American. And because of that, a lot of people said that that they should be afraid of Monday.

“Oh yes sir, they did. As though that Monday was not a day for them! As though they did not have that right!

“But the world is changing. Monday is changing. In our schools and our churches, I feel the energy of this astonishing nation, in reformulating Monday in to something new! Not just the first day, but our first day! Oh yes. Red states and blue. Don’t tell me I am wrong.”

“And . . . cut,” says my campaign adviser. “Wow. Amazing. I’m shivering. Hairs on the back of the neck. Brilliant. Only this is going out on Tuesday.”

“Damn,” I say.

Tuesday

This is a big week. For this Barack Obama it may be the biggest week ever. As big as that week, many years ago, when one Kenyan goatherd dared to look across the world and dream. For this is the week of the Iowa carcass. “Caucus,” says my campaign adviser, “not carcass.”

“Cactus?” I say. “No,” says my campaign adviser. “Caucus. Lots of people come together, and split into groups according to which candidate they support. I shouldn’t worry about it. The whole process happens quite differently almost everywhere else. They only have caucuses in weird places like Iowa.”

“Just like cactuses,” I say. “I guess,” says my campaign adviser.

Wednesday

Up against Hillary Clinton, my big problem is foreign affairs. It goes back a cupla months, to when I said there was a president of Canada. Turns out, there isn’t one. Apparently it’s still owned by Scotland or whatever.

“I won’t lie,” says my campaign adviser. “It’s a problem, even in Iowa. Which, as we have learnt, is not an island. You’ve only done one official overseas trip to Europe. You’ve never been to Latin America. Hillary’s way ahead on that.” I do my messianic eyes.

“I feel foreign policy,” I say. “In here. In the heart. Remember, my daddy was a goatherd from . . .”

“Getting dull,” says my campaign adviser.

Thursday

So. The big day in Iowa. In a church hall, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I run into the Clintons. Hard to compete with people you admire quite so much. By way of making conversation I ask Bill how he reckons the carcass is going. “Screw you,” snarls Bill. “I wouldn’t say it was quite a car crash.”

I tell Bill I meant no offence and that, actually, I admire him in every way. “I’ll tell you who I admire,” says Bill. “Your hot wife. Whoo-hee! That ass!” Almost every way.

Friday

“Today,” I say, leaning forward towards the camera, “I wanna talk to you about Friday. This Friday. Today. This fine January day. And what happened in Iowa on the day before this day. Yesterday. Hope! Farmers.

Scientists. Farmer scientists.

Children! Schools and churches.

Schools in churches. Churches in schools. Farmers and scientists in churches and schools. Children, born on farms and building schools out of science. Oil! Change!

Changing oil! Changing oil into farms! Farming oily children! Oiling science, and churching it. We one nation. One people. Something better awaits us, if only we reach for it.

The next day. Saturday. I thank you.”

“And cut,” says my campaign adviser. “Beautiful. I’m crying here. I think we’re going all the way.”

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