So here we are gathered together outside the front door of 10 Downing Street – fantastic that you’ve made it. Our tour through the prime ministers of Britain begins in just a few moments, and by the end of it you’ll have learned all fifty-two of them in order. Which is pretty cool.

And what perfect timing! It’s the general election today, you see. And, what’s more, the polls are saying it’s going to be the tightest election in history: two votes, three at most, will decide the outcome.

In other words, on top of learning all the prime ministers, between us we effectively get to add one to the list (if we can find a polling booth, that is). What a day we have in store for ourselves…

Whoa! Did you see that? A burglar has just come hurtling through one of the upper windows of number 10. He’s not hit the ground, though. Look – he’s managed to grab hold of a flagpole in the wall above the door, and he’s clinging on to it for dear life.

There’s a robber on a wall-pole above the door at number 10: it’s Sir Robert Walpole, the first prime minister of Great Britain.

He’s offering a prize, this guy, to the person who can spend the most money. Spend the most and win double your money back. He calls it a spending competition. Everyone is getting stuck in, desperately trying to out-spend each other.

What a sensational con! And this man running the spending competition is Spencer Compton, our second PM.

Spencer Compton has not fooled everyone, though. Watch – he’s being pelted with hams as we speak. Someone isn’t happy!

The ‘someone’ in question is, in fact, a giant hen. Look at the way he flicks the hams with his wing: amazing technique!

This hen pelting hams is Henry Pelham, the next PM.

Though it would be fun to stick around and see what comes of this little conflict, we’ve got yet funner things to be doing with our time. Come on, follow me down here. We’ll pass through the security gates at the bottom of the street and grab a boat ride from over the road – that’ll get us downstream to the polling station in no time.

But no – that’s a football song. And, now we’re a bit closer, you can see that it’s the black and white kit of Newcastle United that this song-singing duck is wearing.

This is the Newcastle duck on top of the gates – or, rather, the Duke of Newcastle, Thomas Pelham-Holles.

Ducks are dukes, you see, on this walk: each time you see a duck, you should know it’s really a duke.

And you can apply this knowledge at once because as we pass through the gates there’s a second duck standing in the middle of the road. This, as you know, must be another duke.

Extraordinary – it’s spurting out a great river of cream from enormous pink udders between its legs!

The cream looks rather appetizing, and… mnyum… ohhh… It is! That’s Devonshire cream. Wonderfully rich. You’d never expect such quality from a duck, would you?

It’s obviously a Devonshire duck. It represents the Duke of Devonshire, our next prime minister.

Surprisingly, guess who we find on the gangplank, waddling down towards the boat? It’s that Newcastle duck again, the Duke of Newcastle. Hello! This must be the second term as prime minister for the Duke of Newcastle.

Hold on a second, let me just get this straight in my mind. First we had that robber on a wall-pole above the door of number 10 – that was Robert Walpole, the first prime minister. Beneath him was the chap running a spending competition. That was Spencer Compton – who was being pelted with hams by a hen, or Henry Pelham.

We passed out of Downing Street through the gates and under the Newcastle FC-supporting duck, the Duke of Newcastle. And then we had to ford the pool of cream that the Duke of Devonshire had gushed out.

Now we’re seeing a bit more of the Duke of Newcastle, here on the gangplank down to our boat.

That makes for the first six PMs, with the Duke of Newcastle appearing twice.

Quickly now! The boat is about to depart. Leapfrog the waddling Newcastle duck; on to the deck we hop!

The guy is doing stew art on the john. His name is John Stuart, and he’s our next prime minister.

Now would you look at those boots dangling from his ears! Why is he wearing them?

Well, he’s wearing earrings because he’s an earl, and these earrings have boots on because John Stuart was the Earl of Bute.

That’s the thing about earls on this tour: they’ve always got something going on with their ears. Sometimes, like here, it’s earrings; other times, it’s earmuffs. It varies. But whenever there’s something ear-y happening, you can be confident in saying to yourself ‘aha – we have an earl’.

But uh-oh! The Earl of Bute’s artistic flicking is beginning to degenerate – some of us passengers are beginning to get hit by the odd chunk of stew.

And by God! Did you see that? A great big hunk of meat just knocked a delicate old lady over the side of the boat! No sound of a splash – all we hear is a kind of crunch-crunch-crunch noise, as if the old bird’s landed in some gravel or something – which can’t be right.

We rush to the side to see what’s up – and OH NO!

IT’S JAWS! The gran is being eaten by Jaws the shark! She obviously fell straight into his mouth! He must have been waiting here for bits of stew or something… Oh, but this is horrible – he’s wolfing her down. He’s eating her whole…

This Jaws who’s having a granful is George Grenville, the next prime minister.

Pow! Take that you miserable shark, and this – wop!

Oops – I think I may have miscalculated here. The shark has begun to eat us too. Fight for your lives!

Thank the Lord for the emergency services; a rescue helicopter has arrived already – that’s quick work. They’re throwing a rope down as we speak to pluck us out of harm’s way.

But what have they done this for? They’ve gone and attached a ham to the end of the rope – the idiots! It’s rocking back and forth in the wind; it’s impossible to grab hold of. This rocking ham represents Rockingham, the next prime minister. As he sweeps past again, notice how he’s got an S branded into his side.

Things marked with S on this tour are of course marquesses. This, our next prime minister, must then be the Marquess of Rockingham – and he’s swinging past once more now. Hands at the ready!

We’ve got him! Right! GET US OUT OF HERE!

Someone above us does just that, and soon we’re being reeled up and out of the danger zone.

You’ll never believe who is hauling us in. Up above – this is incredible – is a mere boy. He looks exactly like Just William and in the squeakiest of voices he’s telling us to hold on for just a few seconds longer.

He’s got scraggly grey armpit hair. And a wrinkled face. Repulsive.

This is no normal Just William: this William with the elderly armpits is William Pitt the Elder.

What’s more, he’s got piglets, miniature hams, attached to his earrings, and it’s they who were chatting to us so squeakily. These chattering mini-hams on his ears remind us that William Pitt the Elder is the Earl of Chatham.

Now we’re safely inside the chopper, let me just explain a quick thing about Just Williams. We’re going to see a fair few of them today and what you have to realize is that wherever there’s a schoolboy, anyone dressed like Just William in other words, his first name will be William. Simple, really, but it does need saying: if someone’s dressed as a schoolboy, he’s a William.

Right – time to locate our doctor; we’ve picked up some pretty hefty injuries here.

Harumph. The doctor, the duck over there in the corner, is being sat on by the tennis player Steffi Graf. A (doctor) duck with Graf on – that’s no doubt the Duke of Grafton, our next prime minister. Which is great, but he’s the only doctor present and, unless she gets off him, he won’t be much use to us.

We politely ask Steffi to move, but she tells us to find our own doctor. How rude! We’ll have to look for other options.

Talking of which, what on earth… ? The pilot has just buzzed straight past a hospital… does he not understand we’re injured? What’s going on here?

A quick aside: people titled ‘Lord’ on this walk can be spotted by their religious actions or inclinations. If you notice anyone showing religious interest in anything, it’s almost certainly because he’s a lord.

Take our pilot, for instance, who’s also our next prime minister. He worships the north – and his name’s Lord North.

Let’s see if he’s ripe for conversion. I’ll just tap him on the shoulder to see if there’s any chance he’ll at least make an exception for us shark-attack victims.

COR!

His head has just spun clean round on its axis, and we’re now staring at the horrible burnt features of Freddy Krueger. What a shock! What a way to discover that Lord North’s first name is Freddy!

With nostrils flaring angrily, Freddy North tells us what the deal is. Basically, if we can get an ambulance to wait at a spot due north of here, he’ll drop us off. Otherwise, forget it.

We call the ambulance service, but they say all the trained paramedics are off voting in the election. Hmm. But they could send out a team of schoolboys instead, if that’s of use?

Well, it’ll have to be. And, no, we don’t mind if they signal their position with a flare rather than a radio. So long as it works – it had better.

This is touch-and-go stuff. If we don’t find them soon, we’re done for.

Freddy has spotted it as well, and now he’s manoeuvring the helicopter towards it as we clamber back aboard our roped ham, preparing to be lowered down. With the chopper now directly over them – take a deep breath and JUMP!

Wheeee! This is cool. This is our second go on the Marquess of Rockingham, and his second term as prime minister. But without Pitt to help lower us down this time, we’re stuck rocking back and forth ten yards short of the road. What do we do next?

Snap! Whoooah… SPLAT.

Ouch. Well, Rockingham breaking his rope like that kind of made our decision for us! And what a right old mess we’re in now!

The question has to be asked: how is it that in just twenty minutes we’ve gone from happily getting on to a boat in the centre of town to lying dazed on a road with a shark bite and goodness knows what other injuries?

Well, after John Stuart, Earl of Bute, it was that shark, George Grenville, who put a spanner in the works by having his fill of someone’s poor gran… and then trying to eat us too. Luckily, we’d already called in the rescue helicopter and were saved in the nick of time by the Marquess of Rockingham, that S-marked ham rocking in the wind.

On the plus side, at least we’re alive – and next to an ambulance. And now one of the paramedics is approaching.

I hope he knows what he’s doing; he really is only a boy, another Just William. What’s more, he’s on fire. Or at least his earrings are.

He’s got two great shells dangling from his earlobes, each belching out stonking quantities of green smoke.

This schoolboy smoke-signal with his burning shell earrings is William, Earl of Shelburne. He’s our next prime minister.

And he’s not bad at his job. Quick as a flash, he’s heaved us into the back of the ambulance and closed the door behind us. Now he bangs twice on the back; at this signal the vehicle immediately screeches off.

We’re on our way to the hospital at last – congratulations us.

Looking around inside we see what a funny old ambulance this is! It looks more like a cellar: dusty bottles of port line the walls and there’s not the slightest sign of any medical equipment.

Sitting at our bedside is another schoolboy – this one with the body of a duck. He’s currently busy pouring out a tankard of port.

And, before we realize what he’s about to do, he slugs the whole thing down our throats.

This schoolboy duck-doc who believes that port is the solution to all problems, this duck who lives in port-land, so to speak, is William, Duke of Portland – our next PM.

Unfortunately, the high standards of care we’ve seen from the Earl of Shelburne and the Duke of Portland aren’t being kept up by the third of the three schoolboy paramedics, the driver. He’s doing a wretched job.

I mean – what’s this all about? He is letting us sit idly in a traffic jam as he deodorizes his armpits with talcum powder. Where’s the urgency in that?

If you look at those pits, you’ll see they don’t need powdering at all – there’s not a hair in sight. Those are the armpits of a very youthful Just William. The boy is obviously William Pitt the Younger (our next prime minister), and he needs to get a move on.

‘Come on, driver!’ we plead. ‘Sound the blooming siren! We’re losing blood back here!’

At this, William Pitt the Younger seems to remember his job and, taking a long stick, leans out of the window and gives a hefty whack to the hen that’s been riding along on the bonnet.

An ear-splitting NEE-NOR suddenly blasts out of the bird – this is much better than a normal siren. This is a truly toneful sound!

This hen who’s adding so much tone is Henry Addington, the next prime minister. And the cars around us take notice, clearing a path so that we can speed on to the hospital.

Lastly, it fell to a tone-adding hen to clear us a path through the heavy traffic (that was Henry Addington).

And we’re nearly there now; you can see the hospital and Accident and Emergency looming up in front of us. What a relief!

But it’s looming too fast… for God’s sake, slow down!

KWANG!

What a smash-up! Dear me – we’ve just wrecked the front of the hospital. The driver is going to have some serious explaining to do.

And here he is, opening the back doors. But don’t shout at him – he looks in a bad way, does Pitt the Younger, appearing here for the second time: his second term as prime minister. He’s rather tottering from side to side, isn’t he, and, whoops, he’s just keeled over dead. That’s the end of him, then. Disappointing: who’s going to help us now? We’re in no fit state to walk: shark bites and port haven’t really left us with much athletic ability.

But the place is strangely deserted. The only person who might be able to help is, I’m afraid, clearly a cannibal.

What a horrendous din he’s making. He sounds like a dog chewing a bone. He’s a very small lad, yet he’s still managing to scoff down an impressive amount of her.

William Grenville, this boy having a granful, is actually the next prime minister.

We have to ask, why is he eating his gran? He’s not a shark, after all – what excuse can he have?

Well, it turns out that this is a religious thing. It’s his way of prayer, to eat a granny. He lauds granfuls. He’s Lord (William) Grenville.

Golly! Was that a bottle I heard breaking? And what’s this shuffling sound behind us? Oh – but of course! The duck, the Duke of Portland, who I’d completely forgotten about, is still in the back of the ambulance.

He appears to have regained consciousness, and he’s coming to help us out.

A man in front of us in the queue is jabbering away at the lady behind the desk about how he’ll spend a whole purseful of money if she’ll just sing him a song. ‘A whole purseful,’ he repeats. And, as he does so, he hoists a massive purse above his head and sends a deluge of golden coins sprinkling down on to the counter. This man spending a purseful is Spencer Perceval, the next prime minister. But the receptionist is having none of it. Why would she? She’s Cilla Black. She knows how to say no and, besides, she stopped her singing career long ago. She pushes Spencer Perceval away and turns to us with a thrilling smile – oh, Cilla! And what lovely earrings those are – with the Liverpool FC badges rendered in silver and rubies.

Cilla is obviously a proud citizen of Liverpool. Indeed, with these earrings of hers, she’s the Earl of Liverpool – our next prime minister.

Meanwhile, she’s no longer looking very impressed. We explained how we were bitten by a shark and that we need immediate surgery – but she doesn’t believe us.

‘Ah can smell the drink on yeh,’ she says. ‘Eee, ah know yoower kind, thoow. Yer pyoower selfish. Dunna yeh know we’ve got noo doctors today. Thur off votin’. Goo clean yerself oop in t’toilets and stop makin’ demands. Off yer goo!’

And to think how nice she seemed on Blind Date!

But we’ll do as she says. Before that, though, I think we deserve a recap.

So we were rescued by the Duke of Portland, who woke up to carry us out of the ambulance and through the doors into A and E – that was his second term as prime minister. He took us as far as reception.

There, we saw Spencer Perceval spending a purseful of money on Cilla Black behind the front desk. She had nice Liverpool FC earrings but a terrible personal manner, did the Earl of Liverpool. She told us to clean up our act in the toilets. And that’s not such a bad idea, come to think of it. Off we go; the toilets are just through this door.

But oh no! I’m not sure if I can cope with another one! There’s a shark in here – grinning at us cunningly as he protrudes from his tin can at the urinal.

This cunning Jaws in a can is no doubt George Canning, the next PM. We’ll steer well clear of him and use one of these cubicles instead. Opening the first door, though, we’re almost blinded by the scintillating radiance of what appears to be the Lord God Himself, sitting on the toilet.

I’m nothing if not an opportunist. So I can’t help myself asking a question that’s always fascinated me: ‘How much money do You earn in a year, God?’

A good point. But to understand the meaning fully, we need to be clear that when people ask, ‘Why count?’ on this walk, what they’re really trying to tell us is that they are a viscount. This person who says, ‘Why Count? God is Rich,’ isn’t God at all: he’s Viscount Goderich, our next prime minister. Did you see that shrug of his? That’s what people do with their shoulders when they ask why-count questions. Look out for it later.

We now edge back from his cubicle towards the two basins behind us, closing the door on Viscount Goderich.

At the left-hand basin – check this out – there’s a duck with a Wellington boot stuck on his head. He’s bent right under the roaring hot tap, trying to wash all the mud off.

That head-boot is getting a serious blasting: muddy water and clods of grass are being splattered all over the place – which has begun to smell of a rugby scrum.

No doubt this duck with the Wellington on is the Duke of Wellington, our next prime minister.

At the basin next to the duck’s, meanwhile, the tap is also being put to good use. A large teapot, full of Earl Grey teabags, has stretched its spout towards the tap and is filling itself with hot water.

This pot of Earl Grey tea is, in fact, Earl Grey – the next prime minister.

Oh, how cute! There’s a schoolboy lamb trying to dry himself under the machine. He’s standing on a hat in an attempt to reach the button, but he still can’t reach to turn the machine on.

Bless! Someone press it for him. There we go – see how much he’s relishing the blast of hot air.

This lamb dressed like Just William is William Lamb.

Once we’ve dried ourselves a bit, we head straight for the exit.

But who’s here blocking our way, bouncing around like a glorified pinball? It’s the poor old Duke of Wellington! He’s trying to get out of the door but can’t see where he’s going because of that blasted boot. This is the Duke of Wellington’s second term as prime minister.

We leave him to deal with his issues and pass through the door ahead of him. Let’s go across to the waiting room where there appears to have been a total breakdown in behaviour…

Look at these two policemen playing strip catch with the schoolboy lamb. The rules seem to be the same as in strip poker: get caught out and you peel off an item of clothing.

These two bobbies peeling their clothes off are identical – they’re both Bobby Peel.

One interpretation of the scene would be to call it a lamb sandwich: after Wellington’s second term at the exit to the toilets the prime ministerial sequence goes Peel, Lamb, Peel.

An amusing thing to note is that the two bobbies are counting each successful catch: ‘One Melbourne, two Melbourne, three Melbourne …’ they chant.

As you’d imagine, the lamb thinks this is really stupid, even if his hat does say MELBOURNE on it. With an airborne shrug, he bleats, ‘Why count Melbourne? It’s a city, for goodness’ sake. There’s just one of them.’

A good point. But William Lamb has just let slip his aristocratic title: Viscount Melbourne.

I think we deserve a recap.

So after Cilla at reception, our Earl of Liverpool, we went into the toilets – where we were immediately freaked out by the sight of Jaws in a can at the urinal (that was George Canning). So we made for one of the cubicles to have a bit of a sit-down. Viscount Goderich was inside, though, imitating God and shrugging expansively as he asked, ‘Why count? God is rich?’

At the basins, a duck was on the left-hand side washing the Wellington boot on his head – he was the Duke of Wellington; on the right, there was a pot of Earl Grey tea representing the following PM, Earl Grey.

When we went to dry ourselves we met the schoolboy lamb, William Lamb, trying to reach the dryer. It was shortly after that (at the exit) that we passed the Duke of Wellington for the second time.

But listen to this good news! The surgeons are back! Off we struggle to the operating theatre.

Here it is. Let’s push the door open…

By golly – this is more like a farmyard than a surgery. There are animals all over the place. Maybe we’ve made some kind of mistake.

But no. Out of this zoo, a doctor-like Jack Russell comes yapping immediately and, without any preamble, cocks his back leg and urinates copiously on our feet.

And look at the devout expression on his face as he pees away! This is dog religion for you: treating people like loos, like johns; this Jack Russell is no doubt John Russell, Lord John Russell, our next prime minister.

After sniffing around our injuries, he decides that we require surgery to the leg. Barking loudly, he summons the porter over to help set us up for the operation.

A racehorse with tremendous pink earmuffs trots over at once with an operating table and, once we’re safely on board, drags us into position under the bright lights of the operating theatre. He’s recently run the Derby, this horse, and his earmuffs tell us he’s an earl. He’s the Earl of Derby, the next prime minister.

Mmmm… morphine… and he also gives us an Aberdeen Angus steak to clamp our teeth down on in case we need a little something extra to cope with the pain. Well done, the Earl of Aberdeen.

I think we’re just about ready for surgery. That severe-looking man approaching with surgical instruments in his hands must surely be our surgeon.

‘You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?’ he says. ‘But it’s all OK now. You’re in good hands – literally.’

‘What do you mean?’ we ask.

‘Listen. They don’t call me Palms-of-stone for nothing. My hands are incredibly hard, yet I can perform heart surgery on a newborn mouse.’

‘Palms of stone? How many of them do you have?’ we ask. Argh – sorry about that question; that’s the morphine talking.

Our surgeon shrugs his shoulders reproachfully.

‘Why count palms of stone? Just let them work their magic!’ he enthuses.

Our surgeon is obviously Viscount Palmerstone, our next prime minister.

At the door, there was Lord John Russell, the Jack Russell who urinated on our feet, treating us as a john for religious reasons. He seemed to be in charge, giving the orders. Then along came the Earl of Derby, the racehorse in pink earmuffs, dragging an operating table behind him. He was our porter and moved us into position under the lights.

It was there that we were injected by the Earl of Aberdeen, the Aberdeen Angus bull in blue earmuffs, and finally palms-of-stone Palmerstone introduced himself: he’s our brilliant surgeon.

So, after the second Peel, our prime ministers go Russell, Derby, Aberdeen, Palmerstone.

Talking of Palmerstone – what on earth is he up to? Look at this – I thought he said he was gentle! That’s certainly not what it feels like from here – he’s hacking away like a deranged lumberjack!

WHOOPS! He’s gone and sliced Derby’s bottom! He lets off an ear-splitting neigh. Quite understandably the horse is not happy!

He absolutely flies from the room, galloping down the corridor, clattering through tea-carts and doctors as he goes. We’re being dragged along behind, of course.

Yeehah! This is awesome! This, the Earl of Derby’s second term as prime minister, is the most fun we’ve had all day. Go, Derby!

But what a shame! The crafty Palmerstone has cut us off. He’s somehow taken a short cut and is blocking the way in front of us. Having calmed the runaway horse, he’s now insisting on completing the surgery right here, for fear that the anaesthetic will wear off.

Ah! Hello to you, John Russell, our Jack Russell top doc – who’s just reappeared to see how the surgery’s gone. Interestingly, he’s now wearing earmuffs like the other animals on the surgical team. Very stylish. He’s obviously become Earl Russell in time for this, his second shot at being prime minister.

‘Hmm… Off at the knee, eh? Perfect,’ he says.

But what’s he talking about? What’s been cut off? What’s going on here? We force ourselves to sit up so we can see what’s happened.

AHHH! THEY’VE CUT OFF OUR LEG! Whoops – maybe that was a bit loud – but too late now: the horse is off again, galloping down the corridor, leaving Palmerstone and Russell, our last two prime ministers, far behind.

This is the third time Derby has moved us and his third term as PM. But whoa – there’s a sharp right coming up, and we’re going too fast…

Whewee! So, some treatment we’ve had, eh? Let’s run through it.

We entered the operating theatre, and first of all John Russell urinated, treating us as a john, while he worked out what to do with us. Then Derby the horse dragged the surgical table into position for Aberdeen the bull to anaesthetize us before Palmerstone began the surgery.

Viscount Palmerstone was violent and careless, though, and he cut Derby (who was still tethered to the table) on the bottom. The poor horse bolted – the resultant adventure was his second term as prime minister. Eventually Palmerstone caught up with Derby, calmed him down and finished the surgery in his second term as prime minister.

During Russell’s subsequent inspection of the job in his second go as prime minister, a dreadful error became apparent. When we saw our leg had been cut off, we (quite naturally) screamed our heads off. That caused Derby – this is the third time he moves us – to bolt once more. We ended up crashing off the table into these lift doors. A post-Peel summary, then: Russell, Derby, Aberdeen, Palmerstone, Derby, Palmerstone, Russell, Derby.

What adventure!

Thank goodness there’s someone here waiting for the lift. It’s a young man wearing a baseball cap and baggy trousers. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the rapper Dizzee Rascal. He certainly looks very like him, and he talks very fast too – I can’t understand a word he’s saying.

Dizzee, on the other hand, clearly understands the words we’re saying – he’s preparing to give us chest compressions. Look now as he bends over and really jams his hands in over our heart, working to restart the blood-flow. Great technique: bending to jam in his hands, Dizzee represents Benjamin Disraeli, the next prime minister.

Good effort, Dizzee. But we’re still not breathing. Quick! The kiss of life!

Unfortunately, the beak of Dizzee’s baseball cap stops him from reaching our mouth and he’s unwilling to alter his head-gear in public, so he calls for back up.

Odd choice of back up – it’s a stone. Look at him smiling down at us; what a glad stone he looks!

This glad stone is dressed as a schoolboy Just William but, ewww, he’s covered in warts.

But our heart and lungs still aren’t back up and running; we’re going to need another cycle of this artificial resuscitation. Dizzee now has to bend back down to jam in another set of chest compressions, followed shortly after by another of Gladstone’s kisses of life.

So since we flew off the operating table and into the lift doors after our third ride with Derby (his third shot at PM) we’ve had Benjamin Disraeli and William Ewart Gladstone; and then Disraeli and Gladstone again, as they both had a second go at reviving us.

Bing bong.

The lift has arrived and, dear me, an enormous priest is getting out. I hope he’s not here to deliver the last rites… But, er, no – he’s brandishing a pair of defibrillators. He obviously wants to get involved in the whole resuscitation business.

With a tremendous slap to Disraeli’s shoulder he cries, ‘Swapsies!’ and Dizzee, recognizing that he’s been tagged out of the team, immediately turns on his heel and hops through the closing lift doors.

So this priest is a straight swap for Disraeli on the team, then. And a strange one. He’s wearing the robes of the Bishop of Salisbury Cathedral, by the way, and there’s a large S marked on the front – he’s obviously the Marquess of Salisbury.

With a fruity bellow, he shouts, ‘Clear!’, applies the two charges to our chest and ZAP. Our whole body jolts, or at least what’s left of it.

Still, it’s not quite enough. We’re pretty much knocking on heaven’s door here. But Salisbury is not going to give up on us.

‘Clear!’ he screams again as he angles in with his zappers for his second term in office. Again, we jolt like an electrified frog.

Oooooh! Was that a ripple of life we just felt in ourselves there? Keep going, guys – it’s coming, it’s coming…

Gladstone duly comes in to do his bit, this his fourth go, his fourth term as PM. Hmm, he’s running out of breath; that’s a bit disappointing. I think we’re just about dead now. And to think all we needed was one decent shot of air!

Before we die, let’s quickly relive our most recent – perhaps final – experiences.

So, since our cardiac arrest began, it’s gone Disraeli, Gladstone, Disraeli, Gladstone. Then the lift arrived and Salisbury got to work with his defibrillators. The list continued: Salisbury, Gladstone, Salisbury (and one pathetic last effort from), Gladstone.

Bing bong.

The lift doors are opening. This may be the last thing we ever see.

Golly! There’s a rose bush coming out of the lift… perhaps this is what the angel of death looks like.

But wait a second – I feel an arm in here, and this is a face… there’s a man in this bush! He’s giving us a beautifully rosy kiss of life. This is the stuff! I can feel my lungs kicking back into action. Who on earth could this last-minute saviour be?

Looking closely into the roses, you can see that the bush is sprouting from his ears, which makes him, without doubt, the Earl of Rosebery. He’s our next prime minister.

Having done so much, and not wishing to be outdone, the Marquess of Salisbury barges the rose bush aside to claim the last touch with his defibs. It’s his third term in office, and – ZAP – our heart is well and truly back in action. At last!

Unfortunately, the blast of current has rather knocked us out, and we’re thrown into unconsciousness. What an ordeal. Let’s take stock of what’s just happened.

Well, after we became detached from Derby and clattered against the lift doors, we almost died.

But Dizzee Rascal and William Ewart Gladstone tried to resuscitate us. Disraeli, Gladstone, Disraeli, Gladstone: back and forth they went with their chest compressions and kisses of life.

Then the lift doors opened, revealing the bishop-like Marquess of Salisbury with his defibrillators. Zapping-and-kissing replaced pumping-and-kissing: Salisbury, Gladstone, Salisbury, Gladstone. Gladstone’s last kiss was useless, though, and it looked like we were done for.

Last of all, just to look important really, the Marquess of Salisbury applied the zappers for the third and final time, kick-starting our heart, but unfortunately knocking us out.

Tallying all this up, we’ve just had Disraeli, Gladstone, Disraeli, Gladstone, Salisbury, Gladstone, Salisbury, Gladstone, Rosebery, Salisbury. Nice.

But OUCH! What was that?

Coming round in what seems to be a hospital ward, some kind of cool, hard object is pinging around in the bedclothes – the last thing you want rolling around under your sheets when you’ve just escaped death itself. Whip back the blankets – we need to flush this thing out.

How bizarre! There’s a large brown hemisphere rolling around in our bed with the number four written on it. If I’m not mistaken, that’s half an outsized snooker ball, half a ball four.

This is incomprehensible… Ah – but perhaps it isn’t. A half a ball four may just have been put here to remind us that Arthur Balfour is the next prime minister.

Looking around, we can see that there’s just one other bed in the ward, directly opposite us, and a TV over to the right by the window.

We’ve not done very well with our fellow patients, I’m afraid to tell you. Just look at that large hen in the bed across from us, squawking away. He’s waving a massive banner around in the air and shouting mindless slogans for Campbell’s Chicken Soup. I think that’s what they call suicidal behaviour.

Forgive my lack of sympathy, but I’m just going to have to say something: ‘Shut up, would you?’

Hmm. He’s taking no notice. This is intolerable. Somebody turn on the TV – we’ll try to drown him out.

Oh great. At the very moment we actually need the television, an ass pops up out of nowhere and perches on top of the thing as if he owns it, stopping us from turning it on.

At least he’s providing some entertainment, mind – take a look at his hilarious quiff!

How’s he managed it? What on earth has he put in his hair? It’s shimmering with a bright white powder… well, there’s only one way to find out. Follow me.

Whoops – I’d almost forgotten we’d lost a leg, but we can hop.

Here we are now. Hello, ass!

Come on, pat him on the head, and hold on a sec as I get a quick taster of this quiff.

Hm-mm! That’s unmistakeable: it’s the taste of sherbet. It’s a sherbet ass quiff. It removes any doubt we may have harboured that Herbert Asquith is the next prime minister.

While you’re having your go tasting that ass’s sherbet, do you by any chance notice a deranged sound coming from outside?

Look! A man is trying to gnaw his way through the windows into the ward. He’s frothing all over the place! How disgusting!

There’s only one rational explanation: Boy George must have caught rabies. We’re staring at a rabid Boy George. What a tragedy!

Rabid Boy George stands for David Lloyd George, the next prime minister.

Rabies is highly infectious – a rabid person is a health risk, regardless of their fame. Someone needs to do something about David Lloyd George here. What would happen if he broke into the ward?

Oh, but I spoke too soon: a policeman is sidling up to accost him. He’s a formidable-looking officer – wielding an enormous bone in one of his gigantic hands.

This big-handed bone-carrying representative of the law is Handrew – or rather Andrew – Bonar Law.

With a single swing of the bone, he delivers a nerve-jangling wallop to the top of David Lloyd George’s head, knocking him clean out.

So, since regaining consciousness, who’ve we seen? Well, we were woken up by that half a ball four, Arthur Balfour, who was rolling around in the bedclothes. We were then further disrupted by the hen with the Campbell-soup banner in the bed opposite: Henry Campbell-Bannerman just wouldn’t stop advertising soup.

We then meant to drown out the hen with some TV, but an ass went and plonked himself on the set. He turned out to be better entertainment than we could ever have hoped for, though, once we worked out that his quiff was caked in sherbet – and that he was Herbert Asquith.

All in all, come to think of it, we’ve got to be most grateful to Andrew Bonar Law for knocking David Lloyd George out – it means we’re safe to leave this awful room.

What time is it? Did you say five o’clock? Jeez! We need to get our vote in before six. We can just about do it, I think. But we’ll need to sort out our body first – we’ve still only got one leg.

The rehabilitation centre’s just across the lawn there. Let’s hop across immediately.

Boing, boing, boing. It’s good to be outside, eh? The sun’s shining, there’s a cool breeze, patients are sporting about, healing themselves. There are even a couple of invalids just over here having something of a game of ping-pong. They’ve drawn quite a crowd; this must be more than your usual game. Let’s have a look at how they’re doing.

If this was a competition for being bald, this man with a Stanley knife would win. He’s Stanley Baldwin, the next prime minister. But it’s a game of ping-pong, of course, so his baldness is inconsequential.

His opponent – by golly, it’s Gordon Ramsay – has an equally preposterous approach to gamesmanship.

He’s staring unblinkingly over the table at Baldwin while wolfing down a Big Mac that’s covered in strawberry jam. The red jam is seeping out of the corners of his mouth, carrying flecks of burger with it. This is one of the least pleasant things I’ve ever seen.

Baldwin’s opponent is obviously James Ramsay MacDonald. James for the jam, Ramsay as he’s Gordon Ramsay, MacDonald for the Big Mac.

And Baldwin has served! How strange! Everything, for some unknown reason, now moves in slow motion and with every hit of the ball, another term in office passes…

MacDonald returns the serve into the centre of the court. Baldwin now launches an arcing topspin forehand. A stinger! Even in slow-mo that’ll be hard to return.

Baldwin is the winner!

Let’s replay that superb rally: after Bonar Law, the sequence of PMs went Baldwin, MacDonald, Baldwin, MacDonald, MacDonald again and, finally, Baldwin (with that last unreturned shot).

I agree with you that Ramsay MacDonald having two shots in a row (at office) seems a bit unfair, but that’s exactly what he did: he changed parties, you see, so bagged two consecutive entries on our prime ministerial list.

Anyhow, though it was a lovely point on which to end the game, we’ve yet to vote. We’d better get back on the job.

Come on – onwards to a better body! The rehabilitation centre is just on the other side of this lawn.

And looky here, sitting outside in his impeccable naval uniform, a doorman is guarding the entrance.

And my word – he’s squatting over a chamber pot with his trousers round his ankles. So what’s the protocol here? Any ideas? No? Well, why don’t we give him a grand salute and hope for the best.

Ha! He doesn’t even notice – he is too busy navel-gazing. He just sits, trembling slightly, as he stares intently down past his navel into the chamber pot. One dreads to think what’s in there!

Hop, hop, hop we go, into a gym that opens directly into a garden beyond.

The only people in this gym are, quite wonderfully, a trio of Winston Churchills. Two of them, representing our next two PMs, are huffily trying to roll an enormous orange exercise ball over towards the third – who is crouched in wait on the far side of the room. Note how the second of the near pair of Churchills (the ones doing the rolling) looks like a caretaker – that’ll help remind you that the second of Churchill’s first two (consecutive) terms in office was as the head of a caretaker government (just after World War II).

Wait, though, that’s not a ball the near Churchills are rolling after all: look at the thing’s skin! That’s clearly a citrus fruit – it must be a clementine. And, if I’m not mistaken, this clementine has a map of the world printed on to its orange surface – it’s a clementine atlas.

It represents Clement Attlee – the prime minister between Churchill’s second and third terms. I’m glad we cleared that up, and now we know that the sequence of PMs following Chamberlain goes: Churchill, Churchill, Attlee, Churchill (to the tune of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Sta-ar’).

Sweet! At our foot, a super-sized anteater sits with his long nose down a hole. He’s sucking up ants and eating them with a great deal of relish – or rather honey.

The guy’s name is Anthony Eden, he’s eatin’ ants and honey in the garden of Medical Eden.

We want to ask him for guidance, but his mouth is too full of ants so we use our common sense and head straight for the tree.

Hmm. This is a worry. It has just one piece of fruit on it. A giant melon.

The strange thing about this melon is that it’s dressed in full Highland tartan – kilt, sporran and all. It’s even jigging around on its branch, doing the Highland fling to remove all doubt of its nationality: it’s a Scottish melon. The technical term is Mac-melon; this fruit represents our next prime minister, whose name is Macmillan. Let’s pluck Macmillan the magic Scottish melon from the tree and take a large bite of him. Come on.

POW! Do you feel this powerful energy, this golden warmth, rippling through your body?

This hurried Mac-melon also tells us that our next prime minister’s full name is Harold Macmillan.

He’s even made us feel hurried – which is good, because we should be. Look at the time!

We leap over the garden’s back fence without delay, sprinting up the street towards the nearest taxi rank.

Bother. As we bound up to the taxi rank it’s clear we’re not the only ones after a car: there are a couple of others, and they’re both looking pretty stressed.

Look at this first one: he’s on his knees noisily licking the ground in the most ferocious manner.

‘What’s your problem?’ we ask, a little irritably.

He says he has no problem. He’s just trying to dig himself a home.

‘You want to live in a hole? You want to dig it with your tongue?’

But Alec Douglas-Home is convinced that he’s got a lick powerful enough to have dug himself a home in no time. And who are we to argue with that?

Alec Douglas-Home is the next prime minister, in any case.

The other guy has just run into the middle of the road. Look at him leaping around like a jack-in-the-box, waving his Wilson tennis racquet all over the place!

The taxi, which is being driven by a teddy bear, is quickly on its way, and at a blistering pace.

I’m not sure this teddy driver can take the pressure of getting us there on time. As we roar down side streets and through red lights, Teddy is looking visibly uncomfortable. He is beginning to sweat. He obviously can’t stand the heat. As a teddy who can’t stand the heat he represents Ted Heath, the next prime minister.

Since for safety’s sake we need a driver with his wits about him, we order the teddy to pull over and, as soon as the cab has paused, our hurried co-passenger, Harold Wilson, hauls the teddy bear from the driver’s seat, throwing him on to the pavement.

Hurried Harold Wilson duly hops into the driving seat himself (for his second term as prime minister), and off we speed once more towards the polling station. Gosh, this is exciting! It’s right down to the wire.

What now? What’s this traffic policeman doing in the middle of the road? Look at this guy – he’s some kind of gin bottle, waving at us with huge coloured hands. For goodness’ sake! Not now, gin bottle!

This bottle of gin, his coloured hands now twitching at his side, is actually Jim Callaghan, our next prime minister. He tells us that, if we want to vote, we’ll have to get there by foot. And fast – the polls will close, no matter what, in two minutes’ time.

He points at a nearby thatched building. ‘It’s over there.’

We don’t need telling twice. COME ON! To the thatched polling station!

But whoa – what’s going on with this thatch?

There’s a lady on a ladder with the most enormous knife in her hands, bigger than her own body. She’s using it to scoop up large wads of margarine from a tub on the ground below, and she’s happily slapping the yellow paste all over the thatched roof – as if it were a piece of toast.

It’s very obvious who the builder is: this margarine thatcher has to be Margaret Thatcher, our next prime minister.

It’s an army major sitting on the john. It’s John Major, a major on the john who’s making sure Maggie doesn’t topple over. John Major is the next prime minister.

Why are we lingering outside, though? There’s voting to be done inside!

By the polling booths, a very energetic campaigner is running around everywhere in a last-ditch attempt to make people vote for him. He’s hoping to stun them with his highly unusual legs – he has no shins, and his knees, coming after the thigh in the customary manner, resemble big toes.

With these ridiculous toe-knees he nonetheless runs incredibly fast. So fast, indeed, that he’s a toe-knee blur. This last campaigner is the next prime minister: Tony Blair.

In one giant leap we’re over the cordon, grabbing a voting slip. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. Eyes scan the list – what a glorious responsibility this is – and we select our choice for who will be the next prime minister of Great Britain!

Box ticked and paper folded, it’s posted straight into the ballot box. Had we ticked an inch higher, the next four years would be different. The same goes for an inch lower. Our small action, then, has turned the fate of the nation. At least for a little while.

So that’s that, then. That’s the fifty-two prime ministers in all their ridiculous, tangled order. I don’t want to embarrass you, but you really have done quite fabulously to get this far. Give yourself a pat on the back before joining me as we reflect on the day and see what we’ve learnt.

John Stuart, Earl of Bute, was on the john doing stew art and wearing boot earrings in the middle of the deck. His careless techniques sent a gran into the Thames, and Jaws the shark soon had her in his grasp – he had his granful did George Grenville. And he would have had us too if the Marquess of Rockingham, that rocking ham, hadn’t swung us up from the waters. William Pitt the Elder, the elderly Just William with the greying armpit hair, reeled us into the chopper where we soon saw that our doctor was indisposed: Steffi Graf was sitting on the Duke of Grafton.

We were quite annoyed, weren’t we, by Lord Freddy ‘Krueger’ North’s insistence that he would only go north for religious reasons, but he eventually agreed that the Marquess of Rockingham could lower us to a waiting ambulance where William, the Earl of Shelburne, was burning his shell earrings. Great smoke signals those shell earrings make. He loaded us into the ambulance where a duck fed us port – that was the Duke of Portland.

Pitt the Younger was our driver, of course, but it took the hen on the bonnet to add some tone, Henry Addington, making a siren sound before we actually got anywhere.

Pitt crashed the ambulance into the hospital, before opening the back doors for us and dying. Our hopes of surviving weren’t improved when we watched as yet another William, this one a cannibal on a bench, ate most of his own grandmother: he was William ‘Granful’ Grenville.

We set off for the toilets and were soon scared out of our wits by the sight of Jaws in a can at the urinal – that was George Canning. A cubicle seemed the much safer option, and on opening the door we met Viscount Goderich who looked like God, and wouldn’t count his money – ‘Why count? God is rich.’

There was no space back at the basins. The Duke of Wellington, the duck washing his head-boot, took up the first basin, and Earl Grey, the pot of tea, was at the adjacent one. Beneath the hand dryer, meanwhile, we met a lamb dressed in school uniform standing on a hat: he was William Lamb.

One more sighting of the Duke of Wellington banging blindly into the door, and we were in the waiting room to watch two bobbies peeling off their clothes each time they dropped William Lamb, with whom they were playing catch. They were both the same Bobby Peel, just in different terms of being prime minister, and we discovered in the course of watching that Lamb was also called Viscount Melbourne.

Soon it was surgery time, and when we entered the surgical theatre we were rudely urinated on by a Jack Russell – we were treated as a john, by John Russell. He was the top doc, and he had the Earl of Derby bring us into position so that the Earl of Aberdeen, the bull, could inject us with morphine before Palmerstone, with his palms of stone, got stuck into some surgery.

But it all went horribly wrong.

Heart attack followed. Dizzee Rascal and that warty stone schoolboy got stuck into some chest compressions and kisses of life. Disraeli, Gladstone, Disraeli, Gladstone it went. Then the lift doors opened, and the Bishop, or rather Marquess, of Salisbury appeared and swapped himself on to Gladstone’s emergency resuscitation team.

Salisbury zapped, Gladstone kissed, Salisbury zapped, Gladstone kissed. But this fourth and final kiss of life from the glad-stone schoolboy with warts was a very lame one. We were literally done for when – bing bong – the Earl of Rosebery, a blooming rose bush, turned up in the lift. He positively buried us in his petals, and gave us the rosiest kiss of life you could ever imagine.

That got us breathing, and after one more zap from Salisbury we were alive – if unconscious.

We woke in a ward to half a ball four, that’s Arthur Balfour, spinning around in our bed. Opposite us in the ward was a hen with a banner advertising Campbell’s Chicken Soup to anyone who would listen – that was Henry Campbell-Bannerman. We didn’t want to listen, so went to turn on the TV but found an ass with the sherbet quiff – Herbert Asquith – sitting on it and obscuring our view.

We all had a good taste of that quiff before rabid Boy George started frothing at the window in his depiction of David Lloyd George. And it was lucky that Andrew Bonar Law, the policeman with a bone in his large hand, whacked Boy George on the head – it left the coast clear for us.

Sooooo silly. We hastened to the centre. At the door, our salute wasn’t returned by Neville Chamberlain, who, despite his naval uniform, was too busy navel-gazing on his chamber-pot to notice us. Inside, though, we were delighted to see Churchill, Churchill again, Clement Atlee and Churchill for the last time – Atlee was the clementine atlas.

Finally we discovered the answers to our one-legged prayers. We found the amazing Medical Eden gardens where we encountered an anteater eatin’ ants and honey – he was Anthony Eden. Beyond him, a tree at the back of the garden held a glorious Scottish melon that cured us in a hurry – that was the hurried Mac-melon, or Harold Macmillan.

Completely healed and in a desperate rush, we sprinted for a taxi. Alec Douglas-Home was at the taxi rank, digging himself a home one lick at a time. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait behind him and jumped into a cab with the hurried Harold Wilson, who’d waved down a ride with his Wilson tennis racquet.

The taxi driver was Ted Heath, a Teddy who couldn’t take the heat, as it turned out, so he was thrown out by Wilson who took over the driving in his second stint as prime minister. We looked sure to make the polling station when a gin-bottle traffic policeman stopped us with his coloured hands. He was Jim Callaghan and he pointed us to the thatched building just yards away.

Margaret Thatcher was busily adding margarine to the thatch of this building from her ladder, which we thought quite dangerous until we noticed John Major, a major on the john, securing the base for her.