School's Out

Having decided to keep our unswerving faith in - and loyalty to - the Sacred Triumvirate of Politicos, Soothsayers and Costumed Thugs to ourselves, thus avoiding the Deadly and Damnable label of Anarchist, Feaxede and I returned to our homes, leaving the hordes of people and animals who nobly gave themselves up to the Costumed Thugs. It'll certainly give those uniformed bozos something keep them profitably occupied; I expect that the combined fragrance of several thousand tired and sweaty Northumbrian feet, tons of horse droppings, clouds of dog's breath and every other conceivable vile odour under the sun will be sufficient punishment for them - and whoever dreamed up such an inspirational idea. Whoever it was must be terribly afraid of Anarchists; perhaps they imagine them to be a breed of fly agaric-chewing berserkers - like some of the crazier Vikings. It evidently doesn't pay to have your own opinion here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria; the Unholy Trinity wants to do everyone's thinking for them.

And it looks as if they're doing a great job to achieve that. Figures have been released to the soothsayers and town criers for public consumption revealing that ninety seven and three quarters percent of all children who leave School have less educational ability than when they started. The evidence of this is that the majority of them hang around street corners, chewing magic mushrooms, drinking illicitly-obtained mead, expecting the Northumbrian Kingdom to provide them with a prestigious and well-paid, high-flying executive job ex nihilo.

Of course, anything is possible in this strange world; Wade Rune - the Madcaster Untied football star - is a shining example of the truth that a monkey who can barely string two intelligible monosyllables together can end up earning gazillions of groats by kicking a pig's bladder around. But even Wade Rune at some time in his life applied himself to the acquisition of the necessary skills; most children these days haven't had their mental processes honed sufficiently to recognise the need for hard graft; they expect everything on a plate.

But it would be very easy simply to blame the kiddies for their unreal and fantasy-led expectations; the sad truth is that their parents are too busy either getting pie-eyed in the local taverns, or working silly hours to pay for their foppish luxuries; like Christmas puppies that have outgrown their welcome, their progeny are left to their own devices to wander round the streets like packs of feral dogs. And the teachers - placed by the State in loco parentis to inculcate those values of decency and conscientious industry that the parents fail to impart - are too busy either cogitating on the latest drops of toxic wisdom from Guardy-Ann's outpourings or simply looking forward to the next holiday - or strike...

And they think Anarchists are dangerous? Give me a break..