Reoccupying The Streets

Many gallons of water have passed under the bridge since those acne-adorned hordes assembled their makeshift camp in the Northumbrian principal settlement of Yorvik - purportedly to protest about work, castor oil, soap and the Evils Of Moneylending and Trade. A ragbag of Genuinely Concerned Gentlefolk, chandelier-swinging, magic mushroom-chewing members of the Redistributionist Worker's (sic) Revolutionary Faction, ne'er-do-wells, wasters and the terminally naive, the juvenile Protesters certainly made their mark on the good people of the settlement.

They left an olefactory mark in the noses of the local residents; the smell of myriads of unwashed feet, armpits and other areas, blended with the scent of cooking beansprouts and assortments of ordure was a heady fragrance which stimulated their gagging reflexes long after moving away from the scene. The municipal witangemot has recently set up trauma counselling services for distressed noses - at taxpayer's expense, of course. The clientele is growing exponentially by the day..

They left an aural mark, too. The sound of battle-hardened campaigners shouting mindless agitprop slogans while leaving each night to return to the comfort of their homes and a bedtime story was but one of the noises which the Yorvik residents had to tolerate. Combined with the droning whine of windbag orators, the incessant barking of campers' uncontrolled dogs, the shamanistic beating of bongoes and the chanting of Redistributionist hymns and mantras, it was pandemonium. Some fragile citizens were driven crazy, and legions of redundant pigeon psychiatrists have been temporarily contracted to deal with the resulting mental debris.

The physical mark they made was the amount of rubbish accumulated during their tenure. Most of it was organic, consisting of curled canine colorectal offerings, the human equivalent, and discarded beansprouts and cabbage stalks. Not one leftover apple or blackberry was to be found, however.

And now they're gone, and the Yorvik populace have breathed a huge sigh of relief. The Costumed Thugs, armed to the teeth with clothes-pegs for the protection of their dainty snitches and heavy spiked batons and boots eventually drove the protesters out, amid cheers from the locals and a great deal of brawling and heckling from the protesting protesters. The ninety nine percent of the population were only too glad to see the back of those who pretended to represent their interests.. Parly Toywasp - the Queen Bee of the illiberally liberal Guardy-Ann Cult was fuming in the comfort of her Tuscan villa.

I hear it on good authority that the expelled campers pitched up in a pig farmer's field outside the city walls. The pigs, squealing, made a frightened dash for the river Ouse, and subsequently drowned...