Tuesday, 27 September 2011
Out Of The Mouths Of Babes And Sucklings
Here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, the Redistributionist Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic is in full swing, and that all-familiar haze of unreality pervades the assembled throng, aided - of course - by the chewing of the mandatory magic mushrooms on an industrial scale. Since Feaxede the Fox and I have acclimatised our noses to the unsavoury human bodily odours that saturate the atmosphere, we've settled in anticipation of an engaging and entertaining Picnic.
And we haven't been disappointed. Yesterday, the Redistributionists - in their desperation to present themselves as a formidable farce in Northumbrian politics - presented their pièce de résistance. Never reluctant to use any means possible to tug at the heartstrings of their window-licking camp followers and to impress gullible onlookers, they employed the services of a child. This is yet another astonishing political triumph for Edweird the Milliner. Beat that if you can next week, Caddy Boy..
A small toddler - no more than two years old by my reckoning - was brought to the platform by his mother. To the amazement of Feaxede and myself, the Picnic organisers allowed the baby free use of the platform before the gathered multitude. After several minutes of crawling around, pulling the leather shoe thongs of various members of the audience and slobbering copiously, the child's mother picked him up, and he promptly began to make vocal utterances. These were not intelligible to my ears, and I suspect that no one else understood either, but the mother clearly either did comprehend the stream of babble that proceeded from the infant's mouth, or she interpreted it to shape it to her own addled narrative. Far be it from me to suggest that this was what she actually was doing…
After a series of shrieks, accompanied by feverish random pointing to various members of the assembled mob, the boy's mother provided a translation of the nipper's vocal outpourings. Thenceforth proceeded a translated torrent of vituperation and heated invective against the depraved and heartless Trees, who Threatened The Entire Social Order with their savage Public Spending Cuts. This was interwoven with a melodramatic autobiographical account of tragic family breakdown and destitution. The little salivating rugrat's conclusion was that he owed his very existence to the merciful offerings from the formerly abundant and generous coffers of the Northumbrian Kingdom Poor Relief, which enabled him and his dysfunctional family sufficient comforts and luxuries to enable the adults to function without having to take the trouble to seek gainful employment. Hooray for Indolence!
This crowning moment of his (translated) babbling soliloquy brought the gathered assembly to its malodorous feet - and a rousing prompted cheer went up which lasted all of thirteen microseconds.
Following this, Feaxede and I simultaneously felt the vomiting reflex, and we hastily fled the Moot hall to disgorge the contents of our stomachs. We've both seen and heard the future of the Redistributionist Faction, and it's every bit as deluded and parasitical as the present. I can't wait for the Trees' Picnic net week. It holds out such glorious promise... ..doesn't it..??