It is no doubt self evident if you have met me, that my purpose in life is to bring joy to man, and to the occasional slow moving woman. Recently I have been failing in that by being too tired from my grueling jigsaw schedule to write. For this I am as truly sorry as Tiger Woods was for having hot and cold running sex with the world's most beautiful women.
'Sometimes almost always friend', when she wasn't drunk and throwing die-cast toy cars at high speed across restaurants, asked me to say what I like about Freedom, rather than dicking on it all the time like some kind of a dick. Retching slightly, I would say that I am partial to marmots, raccoons and northern cardinals; strikingly verdant hills rising in the distance, majestic woodlands, cool streams and public spaces unspoilt by vandalism; a courteous and friendly service sector; the lack of vicious, disenchanted teenagers in hooded sweatshirts lurking on corners spitting and yelling; good Mexican food, late night menus and 24 hour supermarkets; ludicrously cheap mass manufactured goods, limitless free plastic containers and styrofoam; bewilderingly vast distances, allowing the segregation of rich and poor to such an extent that the two are sometimes totally oblivious of one another; horseless carriages that could comfortably seat a horse; the freedom to carry murderous weapons; people so large that they look like anthropomorphic elephants, blood sucking arachnids carrying dangerous diseases, endless tanning salons and orange women, ... shit. Sorry.
Unchange is afoot in the ASBO Kingdom, with the same impressively relentless bickering you've come to love, but now with a televised charisma contest, just like here in Freedom. Except without the glamour. And gun brandishing outside town halls.
In accordance with elections in any stagnant nation of declining international standing such as the Kingdom, I expect great leaps forward in the science of hyperbole, a continuing narrowing of the problematic 'policy gap' (I have a dream, that one day all parties will be created equal, because everyone will agree on everything and we can just spend all our days in the fields smiling at each other, frolicking with puppies, laughing at clouds, shitting butterflies and generally back-evolving into a foul smelling soup of mindless protozoa) and an increasingly deft dance of name-calling and hypocrisy in the shrinking remaining ideological space. Soon the voting will be underway, which unless you live in an area where honest to god scum like the BNP are active, is an experience that could be safely - and economically - replaced by national lottery, urinating in the ocean or perhaps most appealingly, putting a bucket of turds on your head and banging it with a wooden spoon.
'Sometimes almost always friend', when she wasn't drunk and throwing die-cast toy cars at high speed across restaurants, asked me to say what I like about Freedom, rather than dicking on it all the time like some kind of a dick. Retching slightly, I would say that I am partial to marmots, raccoons and northern cardinals; strikingly verdant hills rising in the distance, majestic woodlands, cool streams and public spaces unspoilt by vandalism; a courteous and friendly service sector; the lack of vicious, disenchanted teenagers in hooded sweatshirts lurking on corners spitting and yelling; good Mexican food, late night menus and 24 hour supermarkets; ludicrously cheap mass manufactured goods, limitless free plastic containers and styrofoam; bewilderingly vast distances, allowing the segregation of rich and poor to such an extent that the two are sometimes totally oblivious of one another; horseless carriages that could comfortably seat a horse; the freedom to carry murderous weapons; people so large that they look like anthropomorphic elephants, blood sucking arachnids carrying dangerous diseases, endless tanning salons and orange women, ... shit. Sorry.
Unchange is afoot in the ASBO Kingdom, with the same impressively relentless bickering you've come to love, but now with a televised charisma contest, just like here in Freedom. Except without the glamour. And gun brandishing outside town halls.
In accordance with elections in any stagnant nation of declining international standing such as the Kingdom, I expect great leaps forward in the science of hyperbole, a continuing narrowing of the problematic 'policy gap' (I have a dream, that one day all parties will be created equal, because everyone will agree on everything and we can just spend all our days in the fields smiling at each other, frolicking with puppies, laughing at clouds, shitting butterflies and generally back-evolving into a foul smelling soup of mindless protozoa) and an increasingly deft dance of name-calling and hypocrisy in the shrinking remaining ideological space. Soon the voting will be underway, which unless you live in an area where honest to god scum like the BNP are active, is an experience that could be safely - and economically - replaced by national lottery, urinating in the ocean or perhaps most appealingly, putting a bucket of turds on your head and banging it with a wooden spoon.
For those of you not familiar with the workings of the Queen's government, here is a primer.
The Queen is the head of state. However, all this means in practice is that she dissolves parliament, with a highly corrosive acid if need be, and reopens it with her ceremonial 'dance of the thousand corgis'. She also invites the Prime Minister to her chambers once a week to be briefed on his latest spectacular failures, before giving him a good verbal dressing down, then an actual dressing down, then riding him like a pony round the palace grounds, then making him eat out of a dog bowl and lastly finishing him off with a swift one at the wrist.
The Prime Minister is the head of government and, once he has recovered from his weekly visit to HRH, the one who directs policy, namely that of the political party of which he is a member, but sometimes if there has been a falling out and everyone is sulking and refusing to say sorry, he will just go about buggering things up on his own. Often he also carries final responsibility for domestic violations of etiquette, general rudeness and accusations of bigotry against members of the public. International Faux-Pas are handled entirely by the male members of the Royal family. Note how this differs from Freedom, where the previous President-Emperor was so highly skilled in diplomacy that he took the reigns with regards to both domestic and international embarrassment. The Prime Minister is generally a member of the House of Commons, which is to say the body of slimy creatures voted for by, and dependent on the favour of, the populace. Said House's behaviour is then often erratic if not insane, a complex yet predictable function of the mood of it's paymaster.
There are three main 'parties', so called on account of their wild and often depraved behaviour with regards to sex, duck houses and public conduct. These are the red, blue and yellow-sometimes-sort-of-orange parties. Their policies differ vastly with regards to how loudly they are willing to state certain aspects of them. These three parties occupy the majority of seats in the House of Commons with their Members of Parliament, and are not to be confused with the BNP, who are just 'members'.
Members of the House of Lords on the other hand, are unelected. Concomitantly they are not susceptible to the vagaries of the populace and as such are often an indispensable buffer against acts of great stupidity. Unfortunately this works both ways and they are also the first port of call for perpetuating historical stupidities.
After the public themselves, the greatest obstacle to genuine and productive change is the first-class work of the civil service, whose far reaching vision of cancer as a model for the human workplace continues year after year to deliver the goods in terms of obfuscation and bureaucracy.
As someone who in his advanced years is increasingly given to not thinking, at all, my carefully considered prediction for the election is that some dick will win it. Why didn't I just go to bed.
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