It’s funny what goes through your head when you’re stuck in hospital and trying hard not to get too bored. Clearly this is not one of my usual blogs but I’m sure many will enjoy it…
Summertime, And The Fishing Is Easy
Oh dear, said Mr Crabtree, “That looks like a barbel, Jim!”
Jim peered out over the River Trent. “D’you mean the creamy lump, bobbing up and down by the wake of that narrow boat?”
“Yes Jim, it’s belly up. A big fish, too, easily 12 pounds. Probably the fault of a match angler.”
A tear welled in the corner of Jim’s eye. “Or a Barbel Society member.” He muttered bitterly. Being an avid follower of Social Media Jim knew all the pitfalls of that arrogant bunch of self-serving mercenaries. Bastards. Utter bastards. It was all their fault. They had ruined barbel fishing.
Noticing his protegé’s sadness, Crabtree slipped his arm around Jim’s shoulders, gently stroking the nape of his neck. It felt good but Jim leapt away from him, “I’ve told you before Crabtree. Touch me like that again and I’ll shove that pipe up your arse!”
Crabtree was shocked. He’d gone too far. Again. Or maybe Jim was just a little overwrought. It was, after all, a very hot day. Perhaps later, as the sun was setting..
It’s All So Glorious
Midnight, June 16th. Bertie was quietly minding his own business, not quite sure in which direction to swim. He’d no idea what was going on but there was food everywhere and the smells! It was amazing.
It all started a week or so ago. Food came crashing out of the sky above. Unbelievable. Every texture, taste and flavour imaginable. Invariably just before the sun went down. It was everywhere. Incredibly the amount grew and grew as the days went by until today when it was piled high everywhere. Today was unreal.
The sun was still high in the sky when it began. Food constantly rained down at regular intervals from the skies. So much it would take weeks to eat. If he were ever to feel hungry again, that is. He was stuffed. Everyone was stuffed. Stuffed like a stuffed thing.
This is the life. Everyone’s chilled out after the big party. Well, orgy more like. Boy it was wild. Had a bangin’ time. Gonna do that again when we’ve recovered properly. Whey hey! Still a bit sore downstairs and hung over if truth be told.
What the f…?
BOSH!!! BOSH!!! BOSH!!!
BOSH!!! BOSH!!! BOSH!!! BOSH!!! BOSH!!! BOSH!!!
BOSH!!! And more BOSHes!!!
“Flee! Swim for your life! The sky’s falling in!”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s barbelgeddon! Quick!!!”
“Wait for me-e-e-e…..”
Meanwhile, in the real world, amid the caravans, camper vans, awnings and bivvies, the dying embers of spent barbecues glowing dimly, whisps of lazy smoke struggle for altitude in the muggy heat. Stella cans lay spent in darkened corners. Behind a multitude of rods racked on scaffolding, pointing towards the heavens, starlights twinkling, the ambience constantly interrupted by bleeps and sweeping powerful torches, Bill turns to Fred and says,
“Quiet, ain’t it mucker?”
“Always ‘same mate. Always ‘same. Reckon this place has been feckin ottered.”
Mr and Mrs Christian lived on a leafy lane with their two children, Jack and Jill. Mr Christian worked long hours at the factory. He didn’t earn a fortune but Mrs Christian looked after them all. They were very happy.
When a new family moved in next door Mrs Christian welcomed them. She had a 4-pack of ice creams in the freezer that her family would enjoy on Sunday afternoon after church but instead she decided to give one each to her new neighbour’s four children. Didn’t take them long to scoff them. Yummy!
Jack and Jill felt a pang of jealousy but said nothing. No ice creams for them this week.
The following day Mrs Christian’s new friends came knocking at her door again.
“What time do we get our ice creams today, lady?”
“I’m sorry but there are no ice creams.”
“Well we’re expect them. You should get down the shop and buy some more!”
Alarmed she decided it best not to upset her new neighbours, but as it was near the end of the month and money was a little tight perhaps it would be okay to borrow some money from Jack and Jill’s piggy bank.
That afternoon she was shocked when her new friends arrived with four more friends, each expecting an ice cream.
“This our way.” They said.
“Perhaps I can cut the ice creams in half and share them?”
“Are you kidding, lady? You disrespect us. We are entitled to an ice cream each and we would like to send one home to our sisters, too. Make sure you have more tomorrow.”
Mrs Christian was very upset. She was an extremely kind lady. She wanted to make people happy. So she borrowed some more money from Jack and Jill’s piggy bank. They would understand. But it alarmed Mrs Christian how quickly the funds had dwindled.
When she got to the shop the price of ice creams had gone up.
“There’s a huge demand for ice creams,” Said the shopkeeper, “Supply and demand, supply and demand.”
“But how will I pay for them?”
“Don’t worry Mrs Christian, you can go into debt.”
“But what if I can’t afford to repay it?”
“That’s okay, because your children will take it on. Consider it their inheritance.”
“Ooh, I’m not sure.” Said Mrs Christian, shaking her head, a furrow creasing her brow. It didn’t sound right to her. “What if Jack and Jill want an ice cream of their own?”
“Don’t worry, they can go into debt, too. Everyone’s doing it.”
When Mrs Christian arrived home she found her neighbour’s friends, friends had also turned up and they too wanted ice creams. “But there are so many of you!” She cried, “I haven’t got enough to go round and I now need a bigger freezer, how on earth can I afford this?”
“That is not our problem lady. Tell your husband he must work harder and for longer. He is obviously lazy and a racist.”
Mrs Christian wasn’t feeling quite so happy now.
“Oh, Jeremy Corbyn!” Sang her children as they skipped merrily down the street on their way to the fields of Glastonbury Park to play on the swings, not a care in their heart. Everything’s gonna be alright.
Meanwhile, down in the potting shed, Mr Christian was placing the barrel of a pistol his grandfather had brought back from the trenches into his mouth…
(With deference to Terry Pratchet’s Going Postal)
So this is how it works. We each have one vote and we cast it in favour of the person we think will best represent us. The votes are all added up and whoever gets the most votes wins. Okay?
But what if the person I like loses?
Well, that’s easy. You hire a lawyer.
And does that make a difference?
Of course not. But it creates confusion. Gives your challenge some authority.
Depends. A great ploy is to blame the old. They’re out of touch, senile, clueless. Had it dead easy all their lives. Live in the past. Ought to be euthanized. You know what they’re like.
Will that work?
Not on its own, but this is 2017 not 1917, you can organise a Parliamentary Petition. Get on Social Media. Better still you can organise a riot, but it’s probably best to call it a rally, or a protest.
And will that make a difference?
Of course not, but by now folk are starting to get really confused, so you then reel out some doddery old failures from the recent past who will swear the electorate didn’t understand what they were voting for and you actually won.
But I didn’t.
Don’t be stupid. Everyone’s a winner today. There are no losers.
Not sure I like that. How can I make sure I just win in the first place?
Easy. You lie. You make ridiculous promises you can’t possibly keep.
But isn’t that illegal?
Of course not. It’s politics. There are millions of gullible idiots out there. You are allowed to say whatever you like to them. Go ahead, lie. Doesn’t matter. No-one holds you to account. Once you win you can withdraw all the promises you made and say the time’s not quite right.
Folk won’t fall for rubbish like that, surely?
Oh yes they will! The snowflakes of this world will swallow anything.
Roll up, roll up! Free stuff! Yes that’s right, free stuff, gather round. It’s all free!
Wow! And that’s democracy in action? I like it. I’m a winner!
Herr Frumpedinkle’s Folly
That’s right Chancellor, we have a huge hole in our pension scheme.
And you say the only answer you can come up with is to employ one million more workers on ridiculously low wages who’s taxes will then fill the void. That sounds like a master plan. But where do we find one million workers.
Easy my frauline. Africa. We invite one million Africans to come over and work in the Volkswagen factory.
All of them? From Africa?
All of them. More or less. And that way we get to hold on to our generous pensions.
Excellent. How do they get here? Do we have to send the gravy train?
Ah, no, this is the genius bit – they walk!
You’re kidding me? No shizen!
Yes, and when they get here they will enrich our boring culture. They will bring colour and diversity, integrating with the local population making Germany a more vibrant, exciting, friendly place to live. The world will praise us and worship our wisdom. They will forget Hitler ever existed. Dancing will erupt spontaneously in the dtreets, you see.
Brilliant! When do the job interviews start and where will they be held?
No need, Herr Chancellor, this is their great incentive, only the fittest will survive. It’s a race. We promise the earth, the supreme ones will make it here first.
Okay. But once the vacancies are filled, what then? Will not a million more want to come? And a million more after that? How do you stop it? How do we close the door?
We’re still working on that Herr Chancellor.
But trust me, we have friends all over Europe who will want to help us, can’t you see? Monsieur Macron is practically dancing for the honour and the opportunity we are bestowing on him. He’ll take a million, too. The Greeks love us. As do the Italians, and Spain. And Portugal.
What about Great Britain? Mrs May won’t like it.
F..k Mrs May! The British cash cow will just have to lump it. Get on the blower, speak with Gina, the Lib Dumbs, Tony Blair (sighs…, he’s so cute!) Dim Farron. Nick Clegg. The Kinnocks. That awful Sturgeon woman. We own these people. Make them earn their bribes. We need our pensions protecting!
Oh…, just a thought. Not one word to that Farage chap. He’s a dangerous dumkopf!!!