UK politics | i n s e c t i n s i d e

A head louse. Not *Politicus opportunistus*, but one found on many heads © NHS

If one were to peer through a microscope at Politicus opportunistus, one might encounter a particularly well-adapted specimen clinging to the body politic: the louse known as Richard Lice MP.

Once a denizen of Mayfair boardrooms, this particular parasite is distinguished by its curious migration habits. Unlike ordinary lice, which remain close to the scalp, Lice has long preferred to live offshore – Dubai, for instance, a climate perfectly suited for those who enjoy a low-tax habitat. While ordinary citizens are left scratching their heads at rising bills, this desert-dwelling specimen thrives, feasting on tax arrangements as complex as its host is complacent.

In Parliament, he scuttles around the Reform UK Ltd benches, declaring that Britain has been sucked dry – a daft complaint, given his own parasitic relationship with the nation’s tax base. He speaks of national pride while ensuring he feeds off the nation’s purse. And from his sunlit cranium in the Emirates, Lice likes to lecture on sovereignty, patriotism, and “taking back control.” Control, it seems, is easier to take back when one’s wealth is neatly tucked away somewhere the Inland Revenue can’t quite reach.

Most hypocritical of all, for a creature whose very survival depends on clinging, Lice is obsessed with railing against “invasions.” Lice, after all, are notoriously territorial – forever panicked that another insect might colonise the scalp. Our Dubai-dwelling louse demands that Britain “stop the boats” lest another foreign irritant drifts ashore, all the while wagging a moralising antenna as if devotion to a patch of hair were a noble principle rather than the most basic survival instinct. He has even gone so far as to suggest leaving the European Convention on Hirsute Rights.

One might almost admire the consistency: Richard Lice is against immigration unless it’s his own; against parasites unless he is the one feasting; against tax unless someone else is paying it. He is, in short, the perfect political louse: difficult to dislodge, endlessly irritating, and always just out of reach of a comb.

Like all lice, Politicus opportunistus is difficult to shift once it’s attached. Researchers note that the louse’s call is shrill, repetitive, and almost indistinguishable from that of its closest cousin, Faragius brexitus. There is an ongoing debate among entomologists as to whether these lice actually believe the things they say, or whether they simply feed off whatever scalp happens to be nearest. Either way, they remain well adapted to the UK political ecosystem, where parasitism is not merely tolerated but positively rewarded with airtime on the BBC and GB News.

In a wheelie bin in Lydd, there lives a rather odd maggot named Nigel Fraaage. Nigel is no ordinary maggot; he has a penchant for wriggling into the most controversial places and stirring up a storm in the garbage heap of politics.

Nigel was born in the compost bin of conservatism, surrounded by the decaying remnants of outdated ideologies. From a young age, he showed an uncanny ability to thrive in the filthiest corners of political discourse. His ambition is as boundless as the landfill he calls home.

Nigel has a talent for convincing other maggots that the best way to address their problems is to blame it all on the bluebottles. “Those flies are taking away our opportunities to feast on the rubbish of our choice!” he exclaims, his maggoty followers nodding in agreement, utterly oblivious to their own inevitable transformation into flies.

Fraaage’s rise to prominence is fuelled by his ability to tap into the fears and insecurities of his fellow larvae. He promises them a utopia where they can freely devour whatever putrid thoughts they desire without interference from insects in the ‘Woke Brigade’. His rallying cry echos through the compost bin: “Let’s Make Garbage Great!”

His uncharismatic speeches are not without their share of controversies. He once claimed that the decline in compost quality was due to the influx of earthworms taking up space that rightfully belonged to maggots. He proposes sending the worms back to where they came from, conveniently omitting the fact that worms play a vital role in breaking down the compost and enriching the soil.

As Nigel gains popularity, he attracts a swarm of loyal supporters who hang on to his every wriggle. They proudly don “Reform the Compost Bin” t-shirts and wave Union Jacks adorned with slogans like “Maggots First.” They pretended not to see him eat a fellow maggot for a vast sum of money on his foray into the jungle on ‘I’m a Celebrity…’, proving just how insincere his feelings towards his supporters really are.

However, Nigel’s grand plans to rule the compost bin were thwarted when a group of enlightened woodlice exposed the flaws in his agenda and highlighted the importance of diversity in the ecosystem. The compost bin inhabitants, finally realising that blaming the flies or the worms was not the solution, turned their attention to creating a more inclusive and sustainable environment.

As Nigel wriggles back into the spotlight from where he came, leaving behind a cautionary tale about the dangers of following a maggot with a misguided agenda. But beware, as the climate heats up and the mountain of garbage grows ever bigger, the political wriggling will only become more pronounced.