At one end of the room, the paparazzi are huddled in groups of threes and fours, muttering their suspicions to one another. One scratches his testicles whilst the woman opposite feigns interest in the continuing car problems outside. A hatch opens and Arianwen Jones, the kitchen lady, pops her head through. "Will someone get Delwyn? Tell him we haven't got any bloody soya milk. It's cow or nothing," she calls out, her face contorted with anger. One of the paparazzi smirks and mimics her accent to a colleague. Someone farts. No-one moves, but a bearded journo awkwardly runs to the toilets.
9.30am. The room is now entirely full; information concerning the press conference has leaked, leading to a legion of gays descending on the already-heaving hall. Two heavies on the door keep them at bay whilst the most rambuctious of the group begins passing round poppers and singing, bragging about the time he won a Cher lookalike competition at Club X in Cardiff.. The room is a bustle of noise. The door behind the main table (heavily guarded by two beefcakes who are chewing gum furiously) opens from time to time, causing cameras to flash and the assembled people to gasp, only for a terribly nervous looking student PA with a clipboard to put her head round the door, smile apologetically, and then disappear again. A pap tucks into a Scotch egg and a bawdy cackle can be heard from one of the gays outside.
10.13am - The door opens and Rob Lowe, running for Deputy Prime Minister, appears. His suit is Armani, causing Arianwen to remark that she has seen one just like it in TJ Hughes. Alarmingly, his tan is that of a sausage cooked in an aga...for 40 hours. Adjusting his tie, he removes his Tom Ford glasses and holds his arms up to silence the noisy questions.
"Miss Sarkasian will be with us shortly," he begins. The crowd groan. Cameras continue to snap. "I was just wondering", he goes on, "Does anyone have any clear nail varnish? There's been a case of, er, snagged tights," he explains. The room goes silent. Lowe scans the room, wipes his nose and shrugs, his pupils dilating furiously. With no answer, he gives a short wave and disappears again.
11.27am - Lowe enters again. He wants to know what the Thunderball was for Saturday. The room ignores him.
13.39 - From the speakers comes the opening synth whir of 'Believe'. Arianwen announces loudly that she 'knows this one'. The paps stand to attention, cameras poised. The heavies open the door. Bedecked in a silver-sequin jacket, boot cut jeans and snakeskin heels, she appears, flanked by two Power Gays, her neck being perpetually spritzed with San Pellegrino. Her face betrays that a) she barely remembers the song and b) she has no fucking idea where she is. Behind her is a giddy-looking Goldie Hawn with hair so big, things may well be living in it; she seemingly cannot stop waving. Cries of, 'WE LOVE YOU, CHER!' can be heard from the gays behind the glass. Cher sits down. She mutters to Hawn that she'd like it cooler, please. Hawn beckons to the nervous-looking PA to adjust the air con. There is none, comes the reply. 'Fuck!' replies Hawn, much too loudly.
The questions commence. Gwynedd Hughes of the Daily Post asks what Cher will do to improve local schools. Cher says she will empower headteachers to give more hugs, especially to Pupil Premium kids. Hughes looks bemused. A Times journo then asks if Cher is doing this as a publicity stunt. Cher rolls her eyes and nods to one of the heavies, who lifts him aloft by the scruff of his neck and then slings him out of the door headfirst. The gays squeal. And then clap. The aggrieved parker from earlier that morning asks Cher what she would to to improve parking for shoppers in Tywyn. She says that she intends to pull down 'useless buildings' to build new carparks. "Which useless buildings?" he presses. "Churches. That kinda thing", she replies blithely. The room erupts. Hawn says there is time for one more question. A gay behind the glass bawls, "Are you planning to auction your 1986 Oscars outfit on Gumtree?" Cher doesn't reply, merely winks and mouths 'I love you'. He weeps with joy. The PA calls time. Cher is ushered out, slurring, "What the fuck was THAT about?"