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If ifs and buts were candies and nuts, who would win the 2015 general election?

According to the Telegraph, Ukip are reportedly winning "the Google election". But what other fictional elections could produce a landslide result?

Election coverage over at the Telegraph has raised this mole's whiskers today. A headline, reading "Ukip is winning the Google election" reveals that, "if internet searches were votes, Nigel Farage's party would be romping to a majority in the 2015 general election".

It got this mole thinking...

If tweets including #milifandom were votes, Ed Miliband's party would be romping ahead in the 2015 general election.

If tweets including #camronettes were votes, David Cameron's party would still not be romping ahead in the 2015 general election.

If internet searches were votes, porn would actually be winning the 2015 general election.

If ex-girlfriends were votes, Nick Clegg would have a stonking majority.

If gaffes were votes, Ukip would be the largest party.

If women who wanted to vote Tory were votes, the Tories would be losing.

If upsettingly poor media performances were votes, Natalie Bennett would be queen.

If Daily Mail splashes were votes, Ed Miliband would have already won the election.

If pints were votes, Nigel Farage would be drunk on power.

If tabloid comments about skirt suits were votes, Nicola Sturgeon would be Prime Minister.

If online hate comments were votes, Katie Hopkins would be our One True Overlord.

If kitchens were votes, Ed Miliband would have... two votes.

If cupcakes were votes, Justine Miliband would be First Lady.

If literally anything could be votes, nothing makes sense to this poor mole any more.

I'm a mole, innit.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood