So, I’m still on my career break, lounging in my tracksuit at my bijou east London residence and staring at my poster of Jesus as Che – the one to the left of the fridge, not the one to the right, or above, or any of the other ones in the kitchen - and I’m thinking how I can further the cause of Revolution! without aggravating my chronic fatigue and triggering my agoraphobia.

Then it hit me.

I could vote in the Londonistan mayoral election!

“Bob!” I shouted, almost reaching jogging pace as I shuffled into the living room to find my brother staring at a poster of Che as Jesus – the one above the stereo, not the one round the back or on the roof above it or any of the other ones in the living room – “we need to vote in the election for mayor of Londonistan!”

“But, sis, since the passport burning thing, ain’t we ineligible as Iranian nationals?”

Bob didn’t often make a dead good point but he totally did then. Since we’d renounced our British citizenship and joined the glorious Islamic Republic of Iran (although we hadn’t technically set foot on Iranian soil just yet. The embassy had said my law practice was ‘contra bonos mores’ – whatever that means - and there was no work for Bob, as if there’s one thing Iran has in plentiful supply it’s PE teachers) we were now ineligible to vote in the fascist-xenophobic-Islamophobic United Kingdom.

“Plus we’re anarchists, sis! Remember? Anarchic as hell and not going to take this anymore?”

Two good points from Bob in one day. Maybe he really did get a first in his sports science degree.

“If only there was a way we could influence the democratic process without voting”, I mused.

Bob ripped off his matching tracksuit top and smacked a fist into his palm.

“We could tell other people how to vote, sis!”

Bob knew he had something and looked for my approval. I would have given it too, had I not realised that the main forum for this was my blog.

But whom could we tell how to vote? Being from such a totally close-knit family meant not having room in my life for things such as friends. Apart from blood, the only significant others in my life were the people leaving comments on my blog, and they were no good on this occasion due to their either being American or one of our cunning multiple aliases.

Suddenly, the genius that comes from being a totally hot bona fide lawyer washed over me like a wave.

“Bob, where are you teaching on Thursday?”

“Sixth Form College – why?” Bob’s earlier sparks of genius had deserted him (he never did tell me what classification his masters in sports science was).

“We could get the kids that are 18, or the underage ones prepared to steal their parents’ voting card and, after some of my patented radical firebrand oratory, tell them which way to vote during your PE lesson. Let’s be honest: a political lecture from me is far more important than you telling them to run round a field six times and do 100 jumping jacks, or whatever.”

“That’s the chronic fatigue talkin’! I help combat obesity!” retorted Bob.

I panicked for a moment that Bob may have found the ‘I HELP COMBAT OBESITY’ T-Shirt I had bought him for his birthday, but then realised he wasn’t tall enough to reach the top shelf in my closet (if only the same could be said for the top shelf at our local newsagent).

I knew that Bob’s obsession with calisthenics and wearing spandex in public meant my revolutionary demagoguery would have to wait for another day, but his love of giving orders meant we were set for Thursday. Just one thing remained:

Which candidate should we tell them to vote for?

So-called Red Ken had proven to be a shadow of the former GLC firebrand he once was after he failed to leave a comment on my blog agreeing with my ideas to project the number of London’s jobless onto the Houses of Parliament and fly the Red Flag over the Gherkin. And when Man of Men Hugo Chavez totally couldn’t be arsed to meet him, I knew he was unworthy of my vote.

If I still had one.

So he was out.

Then there was Boris Johnson. He was a Tory MP and former Spectator editor but, as I informed Bob, he did write that deeply fascinating treatise on how the European Union had failed where the Roman Empire had succeeded in creating a European cultural and political identity, dooming it to inevitable redundancy.

Bob looked at me with a glazed look, so I framed Johnson’s profile in terms a PE teacher could easily understand.

“The blond fat bloke who shagged Petronella Wyatt.”

“Bonkin’ Boris! Can’t beat a bit of posh nosh! Good one, sis!”

Just as I thought I’d found a perfect way to stick one on reactionary Red Ken and further Revolution! Bob’s frontal lobes flickered into life again.

“Hang on. Wasn’t he the guy who called Black Africans piccannies? Ain’t we suppos’d to be radical anarchists? Wouldn’t this go against our anti-racism stance?”

He was dead right. Again.

“You’re dead right, Bob. Again! We can’t in any way condone anything that might be construed as racism. We must defend our black sisters and brothers!”

“Exactly, sis. But if you or Anomie ever try bringing a mulignan home you know what the family’s reaction is gonna be!”

Ruling out the main contenders meant considering the Lib Dems. As much as I admired Vince Cable’s ballroom moves with Strictly’s Alesha, Brian Pad-Dick was totally out of the question. As he was a gay copper I knew he’d be out to fit up anaracho-revolutionaries like Bob and I, would instantly start relaxing cottaging laws once in office and doubtless set up tolerance zones in certain south London boroughs in his first 100 days. Plus, as anarchists of Sicilian descent, and bound by the code of Omerta, there was no way Bob and I could contemplate voting, or getting others to vote, pig!

‘What about the Respect guy?” suggested Bob. “Gorging George and all that. ‘Would you like me, to… be the mayor’! Hahaha. That Chantelle was fit eh? And she’s had her tits done now! And you’ve gotta, er, respect a man who’s played pussy with Rula Lenska!”

I knew that once Bob’s mind was on pussy his revolutionary ardour became somewhat flaccid. I had to get his attention back on my mayoral masterplan.

"Listen, Galloway totally isn’t going to be our chosen candidate! And while Respect may be dead good to go on a march with they tolerate gays and might give Pad-Dick a policing brief! Do you want him administering a summary stop and strip-search on you and checking for any concealed weapons about your person?”

“Bloody hell! Course not, sis. I’m a PE teacher, ain’t it! But who on earth are we going to bully the fat kids into voting for? I’m anarchic as hell and not going to take this any more!”

As suggesting Green to Bob would be tantamount to suggesting pink, this left one remaining choice.

“BNP?”

“BNP!” "But ain’t we against racism, except when it comes to your and Anomie’s dates?”

As consistent as his anti-racism stance was, something else totally occurred to me.

It wasn’t the BNP’s fascism or racism that I most found abhorrent, but the consequences of their policy for us on forcibly repatriating non-UK citizens if they were elected.

“Bob!” I spluttered. “If the BNP get in they’ll make us pack up all our Che posters, evict us from east London and send us to Tehran!”

Bob looked almost as terrified as when I mentioned Brian Pad-Dick personally giving him a cavity search.

“Wos the point in voting anyhow, sis? The mayor’ll only end up getting in again! And I’ve got a much better idea...”

Bob resumed smacking his fist into his palm.

“I’m going to bully the fat kids into not voting!”

“Brilliant, Bob! Absolutely brilliant! Direct inaction! What a totally revolutionary concept!

And with that we resumed staring at our pictures of Che as Jesus. Or was it Jesus as Che? Some totally leftist revolutionary with a beard, anyhow.