Smoking F.E.G.s

It's so unpredictable as to what the soothsayers are going to get excited about, and each day produces fresh and steaming examples of human imbecility. For example, there's been an unholy furore about some schoolchildren in the Tree Club of a Caledonian kindergarten. It appears that they have a time-honoured custom of making an effigy of their favourite public figure, and burning it to the sounds of skirling bagpipes, the slurping of the noxious uisge beatha, belching and projectile vomiting; each year a new candidate is selected for this honour, and a good time is had by all.

This year, the chosen persona was Booradleigh O'Barmy, the Supreme Chieftain of the distant shores of Ultima Thule - that undiscovered land of plenty. Fair play, kiddies - whatever floats your longboat. It's not a particularly intelligent pastime for the younger samples of the Crown of Creation, but hey, who cares? As long as they're not tormenting my fellow felines, or other creatures - or even each other, then I don't really give a monkey's brunch.

Sadly, that's not how the Kindergarten authorities saw it. As soon as they caught wind of this event, the Redistributionist sluice-gates opened automatically, and this harmless - if rather vacuous - pursuit brought down the greatest damnation that could be conferred by one human being upon another: it was given the Inappropriate epithet. Let's take time to recover from the shock, boys and girls. Smelling salts are supplied free - at taxpayers' expense, of course.

Apparently, according to Those Who Know, such an act is Deeply Offensive, and can destroy all forms of human life within a radius of three thousand miles within a rat's sneeze, and for that reason, it must be dealt with. Precipitately.

So the poor children had to say they were sorry. On their knees. In deepest contrition.

As far as I know, nobody was hurt. Booradleigh O'Barmy, the Supreme Chieftain of the distant shores of Ultima Thule - that undiscovered land of plenty is still alive and unburnt. He probably will never hear about the mortal offense that was committed against him. If he ever does, he'll probably have a chuckle; I hear that he eats dried fruit for breakfast and he's a regular guy.

I'm waiting for Tondvig the Blur, Guffmund the Brown and Dagwald Caedmeron and all of their venal henchmen to kneel in penitence before the Abbess Hilda as they confess the real offenses they've caused in the name of Government. I think I'll be waiting until the cows sing the Latin Psalter...