Shazia’s week

With my parents, dishonesty is the best policy. It saves an awful lot of ludicrous explanation.

There is a reason why the White House is called the White House. The clue is in the name. I don’t think Barack Obama realises he’s black, because he thinks he’s got a chance of winning. Michael Jackson has more chance of getting into the White House than Barack.

Even my black friends are voting for Hillary Clinton – that’s how white my black friends are. My friend Cathy, a hardcore feminist (when I say hardcore, I mean hairy armpits, vegetarian, wants to kill all men), called from San Francisco a few days ago, and in mid-conversation about the elections, when I asked her who she was going to vote for, she replied: “Well, it’s got to be Barack because America is not ready for a female president.” America, the greatest country on earth, is not ready for a female president? Even Pakistan, where recently I tried to get in a cab but the driver wouldn’t take me because I wasn’t accompanied by a male, has managed a female prime minister – twice.

A black man versus a white woman – all we need now is for Hillary to reveal she’s a lesbian and all boxes will be ticked in the race for the White House. But it seems Hillary’s scheming approach is working: crying to get votes? This woman will stop at nothing. Her next strategy will involve losing weight to get the voters in.

She seems to have a headstart with Bill by her side. Who has Barack got? Oprah Winfrey. She may be America’s only black billionaire, but she’s still black. The solution to the problem is: get Oprah to buy the White House and put Barack in it. Or just annoy everyone and put O J Simpson in there. He’s an ideal candidate for presidency: football star, murder suspect, president – it’s the normal route.

I have spent the past seven days visiting my parents in Birminghamabad. Their conversations revolve around three consecutively repetitive questions. Why aren’t you married? Are you gay? Would you like more to eat? I never feel the need to lie, but in my parents’ company, dishonesty is the best policy; it saves me an awful lot of ludicrous explanation.

All was going swimmingly until they revealed that they were very excited at the prospect of having Britney as their neighbour. My mum tells me that all the Asian women in the neighbourhood have bought school uniforms and are wearing their hair in pigtails in preparation for starting a tribute act for Ms Spears.

I hear Britney’s new boyfriend is from Birmingham, that she is very taken with the Brummie accent and that she’ll be converting to Islam to marry him. Islam has enough problems without Britney joining the gang.

I believe her antics lately have been a brazen attempt to divert people away from her secret conversion to Islam. She needed to have the kids taken away from her to give her more time to learn the Quran and then – in true Islamic fashion – go drinking down the pub afterwards. I think all of this is a very good idea as it will involve her wearing the burqa, which, after all the criticisms of her weight recently, will definitely make her look slimmer – and every large woman knows that nothing goes better with a burqa than a pair of fat hot pants.

It’s all beginning to make sense, and soon Britney will be speaking fluent Urdu in a Brummie accent. Islam works in mysterious ways; Birmingham’s plan to convert the world is about to get going – and what greater ambassador than Britney Spears?

The news on Britney has taken over the news of the elections. Since her antics are so important, maybe they could put in an extra ballot to ask the people of America: “Should she convert or not?”

I hope Birmingham can strike a deal: if we agree to have Britney, maybe Louisiana will agree to take Ozzy Osbourne and convert him to a Southern Baptist. What a great way to spread the love.