Weed, Mark, Learn

I am well and truly shocked. No, really. My gast has been flabbered. Today it has been disclosed by the soothsayers that Those Who Think They Matter in the showbusiness, shamanistic and luvvie ranks in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria have crafted a letter to Dagwald Caedmeron – the Chief Cock and Bluebottle Washer of the fly agaric-chewing Blue Redistributionist Tree Faction. Frankly, I'm surprised that any of them can write, let alone string a few coherent sentences together.. And what did they say to him? - That the War On Magic Mushrooms and Naughty Plants has failed. The earth stopped on its axis in disbelief.

Such was my surprise, that I had to lie down when I heard this. In fact, I went to sleep, and had a very pleasant nap. I dreamed of ten-footed mice with silver wings…

The War On Magic Mushrooms has been a beautiful piece of theatrical posturing by the Witangemots for generations. In fact – every since some hapless soul in ancient times discovered by chance that chewing certain fungi and plants had profound effects upon his (or her) perceptions, there's been a ready market for the desirable weeds and toadstools. Entire religious systems, theologies and political theories have rested upon the wild experiences and bizarre insights opened up to those who have partaken of the sacred weed. Yes I an' 'ting.

Since it's been observed that those affected by these aberrations of Mother Nature have behaved even more irrationally than usual, anxious parents and other family members have been Deeply Concerned. Intoxicated youths have hung upside down from boughs like demented bats, claiming that this new angle on reality revealed to them the Meaning Of Life; others have run berserk in the market places and fought or venerated public monuments and horse droppings. Very sad. So the Concerned have wrung their hands and declared that Something Must Be Done. This has been driven by the fact that some of these substances have taken a hold upon those who have taken them, who have metamorphosed from healthy children into surly and pathetic changelings, grubbing desperately for the next dose, and stealing groats to purchase the next instalment of their beloved narrative.

Therefore successive Witangemots have seen a Golden Opportunity to make groats by imposing Laws to criminalise magic mushroom chewers. Those apprehended by the Costumed Thugs and dragged before the Moots are given hefty fines. Business is booming. In fact, in our glorious Anglo-Saxon history, entire fortunes were made by some aristocrats by trading the naughty noxious weeds and toadstools in faraway places like Cathay and London. As far as I understand it, the trade still goes on undaunted, and fortunes are still made and maintained – but every now and then, a feckless dealer or two gets caught in possession of a bag of mushrooms, thus creating the illusion that Progress Is Being Made. Everyone's deliriously happy. Whatever.

So these fairyland-dwellers think the War On Magic Mushrooms and Naughty Plants has failed. I've got news for them: it never started. Whatever else could account for the imbecilic things said and done by the political factions and the soothsayers?