Untitled, apparently

I recently had a free weekend, and decided to take a trip up to visit an elderly maiden Aunt of mine, who lives a life of genteel poverty in the wilds of Northumbria. I got on the train and opened a small cask of amontillado and an attache case full of periodicals. As we headed north the scenery grew progressively more rugged and dreadful, and train itself suffered a sad and progressive change, from the shining modern conveyance I had first boarded to a clanking diesel monstrosity that grew more shabby and stained as time went by, electric light fading to gas, until it disappeared altogether and left me standing on the tracks with my attache case in my hand and the firkin of sherry empty on the ground, as night closed in fast around me. I had little choice but to shoulder my burden and proceed along the line northward. Eventually I came to a small and ramshackle hamlet. My arrival was greeted with the barking of dog, and a man clad in clerical collar and tricorn hat poked his head out of a doorway.
'Yeel be warnting a roum for tha nicht' he stated, in a grotesque dialect unfamiliar to my ears. I answered with ready enthusiasm.
'Please, if you would be so good.'
'Yeel be needin ta goo oop ta tha Abby for tha' he cackled, pointing a horny finger toward the dark Gothic spire which loomed on a crag over the village.
I hied my way toward the landmark with trepidation, and smote thrice on its heavy oaken door. Judge of my surprise when the door swung open, without the hint of groan, to reveal none other then Lord Mandelson, dressed in a v-neck jumper and ermine robes. I explained my predicament, and in no time at all he had ushered me in and sat my in front of the fire in a fluffy dressing gown with a beaker of sprightly young burgundy by my side. The Baron, I noticed, preferred a rather darker and frothier vintage, which ran in sticky rivulets down his chin as he greedily supped. His furniture was simple and tasteful, of a modern style, made almost exclusively of brushed aluminium. I asked expressed my admiration.
'Oh yes' he said, 'they were the gift of a friend. I had to pay the import duty of course, but the tariffs were surprisingly reasonable.'
He stood up and walked over to a large and bubbling cauldron. I followed, eager to see what could be afoot. As he cast his taloned hand over the liquid, the surface became at once lucid, and I was able to see, within the depths, a remarkable vision of the Tory Headquarters. David Cameron and Boris Johnson were stripped to the waist, though with their white ties still round their necks, and they had large cigars in their mouths. They were holding Gideon Osborne by his ankles and banging his head on the floor.
'What do you have to say for yourself?' cried Mr Cameron.
'I neither requested nor received money!' ejaculated the unfortunate Osborne, only to receive a renewed drubbing against the floorboards.
'Stamp on his face! Pull his ears!' squealed an excited Michael Gove from corner, where he was standing with Johnson and Cameron's respective coats in his hands.
'I, I, I'm very sorry for an error in judgment!' stammered out Osborne. The Tory twosome dropped him to the floor.
'Now get out' growled Johnson, his usually warm feature contorted with malice and port, and Osborne fled the room under a hail of champagne bottles.
Back in Northumblerland, Lord Mandelson again ran his hand across the surface of the liquid, and the scene faded into opacity.
'It looks like 2009 will be a good year' opined the Baron quietly.'