Gullible’s Travels

Once upon a time that were two small villages not too far from each other. Nestling among the Muddlingthrough hills, Much Sodding boasted a farrier, whereas Little Sodding was proud of its brewery. The road connecting the two was a winding, half cobbled, rutted, dung strewn affair. It’s tree lined hedges hid myriad dubious characters who were liable at any time to accost any poor wretch who dared to traverse the King’s Highway. If you stood on the granite steps of The Badger and Ferret in the high street of Little Sodding, the highway passed under your nose and carried on to your left towards Much Sodding. Should you find yourself lingering upon the Inn’s inner threshold, you would have your nose engaged with the highway before your eyes saw it, or any sound of its use arose, for it served the purpose of a lavatory, a waste system for the old throw outs of rotted vegetables from the Wednesday market, and a horse’ digestatory processing depository all in one go. 

In other words, it was full of shit.

This observation, by the way, was also an insult the denizens of Little Sodding (also known as little Soddoms) would later use – without irony – to describe any visitor from the next village of Much Sodding. The annals record that this became so popular that in future decades other towns and villages in the Muddlinghthrough Shire took it up as a favoured insult to anyone they did not know, found to be talking a lot with a funny accent.

To suggest the highway stank, was to be a statement of the ‘so bleedin’ obvious’ as to rank it alongside warnings isssued about the use of guillotines and excessive bleeding, bean eating and flatulence and the inability of Hollywood* producers to keep their trousers on. 

As the highway left the village it began to climb in quite a circuitous fashion due to there being a hill, the summit of which was often hidden in mist. The hill was named ‘Sodding Hill’ by later unanimous agreement between the inhabitants of the two villages. Anyone reaching the top was oft heard by a roosting crow to utter “That Sodding Hill will be the death of me”, a truth muttered often in jest or exasperation. A truth which at times visited itself upon the weary traveller due to robbery, hypothermia or as a result of the extra pie and pint taken in the Badger and Ferret the night before.

 

 

Sodding Hill then of course served as both defence and blockage between the two villages. The existence of each which was known only to the inhabitants of the other through rumour and legend gleaned from the lips of rain soaked, deathly pale and penniless venturers who sought refuge in either The Badger and Ferret or The Prince and Pecadillo in the two Soddings.

Little Sodding’s brewery had a reputation for producing ales of such quality that demand for it spread from the high street, to the old vicarage and on to the ears of Old Gilbert Fiddles who lived in the last thatched cottage overlooking the duck pond at the village boundary which lay at a point just as the highway began its climb up Sodding Hill. Vicar Tiresomely-Preaching, upon hearing of a new cask being opened in the Badger’s snug would not be above cutting vespers short so as to get a tankard full before Squire Sir Evershot Strangely-Bottom got wind of it and beat him to the virgin pint. They were fierce rivals and would go to any length to be the first to taste the sweet golden liquid that had never yet passed a man’s lips.

 

Demand for ale, meant demand for barrels and horses to pull the drey.

A problem of course is that horses need shoes, and to the little Soddoms’ chagrin that meant Much Sodding’s farrier. Yet for years, before the knowledge of the existence of the adjacent village, the poor horses of Little Sodding had to plod along very slowly in their bare feet, picking their way slowly through the highway’s detritus. This also meant that the brewery’s famed ales were famous really only in one village and particularly between a Squire and a Vicar.

Sodding Hill was therefore a barrier to trade, It not only was a physical barrier but for years blocked all knowledge of the possibility of an emerging market for ale beyond the borders of the village. The same was true in reverse of course. The farrier in Much Sodding, although excellent, often had to take holidays because all of the horses in Much Sodding were already “Sodding provided for, by me the Sodding Blacksmith” as oft grumbled the, er, Blacksmith.

 

After a long hard day’s forging, Rupert the blacksmith, would say “I don’t half fancy a drink of something…..cold and refreshingly hopped with a hint of citrus notes if only there was such a thing….well, I don’t really fancy water and tea has not yet been discovered…” But he was always disappointed to get home, wash, and then trudge to his local ‘The Prince and Peccadillo’ only to be served cider and rum. Not that that there was anything wrong with either save the offer was limited. There was something ‘missing’ in the bar that the ‘Huge Soddoms’ of Much Sodding could not quite put their finger either in or on.

This unsatisfactory situation continued for years because of Sodding Hill and the very poor and quite dangerous transport links between the two villages. In truth, the ‘transport link’ was only a shit and rat infested rutted roadway whose head was lost in the mist of the hill.

The brewmaster, in Little Sodding, one day had an idea when delivering his last two barrels of his premium ale ‘Rectal Bleeder’ which at 6% was the vicar’s favourite.

“Nice to see the delivery of a new ale George” said the vicar in the smoke filled darkness of the snug. “Don’t tell the Squire just yet”. The snug was otherwise empty and looking around, it occurred to ‘George the Brew’, that it would be a grand idea if there was another pair like the vicar and squire who required more regular slaking of thirsts. He could make more ale, sell more ale and free up barrels for fresh batches more regularly. There may be unintended consequences of the increased libatory habits of little Soddoms, but surely it would be a good thing to increase trade, if only the road was better and the barrier to moving stuff could be removed…he was of course referring to Sodding Hill.

Old George the Brew had a son, “Gullible Gordon” so called due to his propensity to believe in anything at all relayed to him by absolutely anyone, including the very odd traveller from over the hill who survived to tell of girls, freely galloping horses and a pub with only rum and something like apple juice on offer.

 

Gullible would repeat the tales to his father of a village over the hill and far away, a village in need of ‘something, but I don’t quite know what’. It was just such a tale that resonated with George the Brew, just as the Squire burst into the snug and upon spying the vicar reaching for the first pint of the new ale cried “Bastards! I’d have got here faster but the horse trod in some dung and refused to move until his toenail was cleaned…if only he had some sort of footwear protection…I’d have beaten you to it”.



Back in the brewery….

“How do you fancy a little trip son?” Fearful of what could become of him should he step one foot on the highway to Sodding Hill, George knew he could encourage ‘Gullible’ to go and seek out the truth of the stories. But, how was he going to get there?

Canals had not been thought about due to the requirement of digging a large trench and then lining it with bricks to make it water tight. This seemed like an awful lot of work to fulfil a function no one had fully thought was possible. This meant that canal boats had yet to be built, mainly because canals were non existent, this being a classic example of the chicken and egg conundrum. There were also no such things as aircraft. Both villages did not even have have a word for them, and security checks with rubber gloves were but a far off dream. Only the ‘road’ existed and this was braved only by a desperate few on foot and very occasionally a horse in pain going one way to the summit, but lacking the will to go any further, would turn back.

Oil was still underground in the desert in a strange hot dusty land far far away. Given the inhabitants of Much and Little Sodding on both sides of th hill had not ever heard of a desert, and given also that transport was impossible bar walking and coaxing a horse in pain, the lack of this commodity meant the horrors of car use was yet to come.

‘Gullible’ yet agreed to go over the hill in search of ‘something’ which he believed actually existed such was his store of delusion, self belief and it must be said, lust. For he had heard of fair rosy cheeked maidens who still had their own teeth and were free with their ‘liberties’ or so it was rumoured. He so wanted to believe, and so he was easily persuaded by his father to seek out men in need of ‘Rectal Bleeder’ and girls in search of ‘moral guidance’. Perhaps there may be something he could bring back, apart from a bruised ego ?


There was another force driving ‘Gullible’ onwards. A force which would not be held in check by trifling details such as the lack of canals, cars, trains or aircraft. This force lay dormant for millennia in the gonads of the most daring of tribes who otherwise had no choice but to restrict the radius of their travels to just a few miles in any direction, or as far as the lone tree on a green hill far away just outside a village wall, should they be so technologically developed as to add masonry skills to gazelle gutting and carrot growing. It is the case that travel was as mysterious and as dangerous an activity as witchcraft or the goat worrying activities of the pubescent male. This resulted in the often difficult practice of the disappointing search for breeding with someone who does not look like yourself or your sister…

 

And so it was that Gullible was driven by the will to lust, a primordial force strong enough to force him up and over the hill to discover new pastures and petticoats, to establish a trade route without the need to colonise, rape or pillage. He needed not a passport, nor points or tariffs. He was free to come and go as he pleased notwithstanding the rigours of travel itself.

One early dawn, armed with bravado, a ham and cheese sandwich and his father’s words ringing in his ears, “Go my boy, and don’t stop until you find thirsty men willing to accept a Rectal Bleeder”, Gullible set off with a donkey called ‘Stobart’ who carried a small barrel of George’s finest beer. Trudging though the village detritus in the high street, past the last thatched cottage by the duck pond and onwards towards the hill, Gullible (and Stobart) set off with Joy  in his heart and Hope in his trousers. 

The journey was easy at first, before the road started to wend its way upwards. However, the detritus became less dense and noxious as they climbed higher, as fewer and fewer folk ever travelled this way. Gullible’s heart lept at twigs cracking or leaves rustling, fearing he might be set upon by rogues and vagabonds hell bent on stealing his beer or wanton donkey fiddling. Dusk fell until right at the top of the hill, he was in darkness. An owl hooted. They were the only bird to have an equity card that allowed nocturnal performances, and they took full advantage to scare the living bejesus out of unwary travelling folk. 

A tiny thought crept into Gullible’s mind. “Maybe I should go back?” The donkey thought “where the flying fuck are we?”. Yet, the force was with him urging him on. He pictured scantily clad young ladies in frilly lace, just like the pictures his father had back in the Brewery office, pictures that the chap selling them had described as ‘artistic’ and therefore not rude at all. 

He travelled though the night, through dense trees with the moon trying to poke through the canopy. Finally he crested the hill and began the slow decent towards Much Sodding. Its lights were not yet in view and so the only guide was the occasional moonbeam on the road. 

The only sound was an owl’s hoot, and an occasional donkey fart. 

As the early rays of the dawning sun rose in the distance, Gullible reached the boundary to the village. There was a duck pond, and a thatched cottage and a sign pointing the way to the pub. As he trudged along, with Stobart occasionally stopping to eat nettles, he could smell bacon and eggs, baking bread and coffee wafting through the street. Up ahead in the distance, he could see a shimmering light. It was the Inn, with its staff preparing for the breakfast rush. A sign hung outside which simply stated “You can check in anytime you please”.  

Gullible encouraged by the sights and sounds of Much Sodding was only too keen to meet the Inn Keeper. A big disappointment at this time was the lack of frilly laced young ladies in view. No doubt they would come flocking to hear of the stranger from over the hill. But first to work! 

The landlord of ‘The Prince and Pecadillo’ was pleased to hear of the availability and novelty of the 6% ‘Rectal Bleeder’ and only asked that Gullible return to Little Sodding with a cask of his best cider ‘Eve’s Sin’ which at 7% became a firm favourite in the Vicarage after choir practice and before a confession. Gullible stayed a few days and indeed his attractiveness blossomed with each pint sold and tales of exotica from Little Sodding were told. He was not above embellishment, especially when it came to tales about his own prowess in brewing, donkey riding and what he called “Lady fettling”. 

The landlord of The Prince and Pecadillo was pleased to hear of the availability and novelty of the 6% ‘Rectal Bleeder’ and only asked that Gullible return to Little Sodding with a cask of his best cider ‘Eve’s Sin’ which at 7% became a firm favourite in the Vicarage after choir practice and before a confession. Gullible returned to Little Sodding on a horse who was only too happy to quickly trot over the hill, shod as it was with iron shoes of Rupert’s best quality. Gullible would trade with gold and silver coins happily accepted by the ‘Burghers of Much Sodding’ to ease the trade of iron shoes one way and ale in the other.

It was not long before other villagers began to take the same journey and to realise that the ‘little sods’, as they became known to the ‘huge sods’ and vice versa, had much in common, and that Sodding Hill could easily be overcome if they just encouraged as much movement up and down the road as possible. They’ve even clubbed together to fix the road and before long someone invented a railway. There was no need for a canal. One unintended consequence was that babies born in the Sodding’s were much better looking than they had been before, and quite a few resembled Gullible.


The End.

 

*of course, Hollywood at this time was only a lone cactus, a lizard and an outcrop of rock.

To Saffron

A gull effortlessly glides the wind, it’s wing feathers hardly ruffle as it cuts silently through the air. Across the great grey, sea green bay, the white lighthouse blinks rhythmically atop its sea battered black rocks. A short gap of foaming, current eddied swirling water separates it from the headland. The sweep of the cliffs to its right, then turn to beach, then to sand dunes. It is only 8 in the morning on a rather mild but overcast January morning. The sun has risen, but where it is, is anyone’s guess as cloud cover is about 100% stretching from all compass points to merge overhead as a blind grey white canopy of vapours. The only sound is a light breeze in the palm trees, and the shoreline waves far below on the beach. The quiet is momentarily disturbed by a car crossing the bridge over the railway line at the end of the platform, for this is where I stand. The 0810 to St Erth from Carbis Bay will soon trundle in, its steel wheels screeching against the curve of the track as the brakes bite. 

The long sweep of the platform is home to a woolly hatted, jute bag carrying, scarf wrapped passenger off to St Erth. That’s two of us in total. To the west, the track curves over the viaduct of the Carbis stream, the Wheal Margery adit, and hugs the cliffs as it heads toward St Ives. Any train going that way will arrive in just 3 minutes. The line itself cuts deep halfway up the steeply wooded cliffs and is overlooked by some very grand houses on Hain Walk, the coastal path into town. The chapel of St Nicholas on St Ives island is clearly visible from the platform on Carbis Bay as it pokes its nose from around the final headland. For now the delights of St Ives, the beery hospitality to be found in The Sloop, The Pilchard Press or The Beer and Bird will have to await another day. As will the hot steaming steak pasties. 

For I am going East. To St Erth, Exeter, Paddington and on to Audley End near Stansted Airport. This will take about 10 hours. The train from Carbis By to St Erth will take about 12 minutes. It hugs the coast all of the way, overlooking the magnificent stretch of the beach of Porthkidney sands, to the lighthouse and the ebbed tide mudflats of Hayle estuary. Wading birds are having breakfast all along the shore; oyster catcher, turnstone, curlew and heron. And of course the ubiquitous gull. 

To avoid stress, I prefer to give myself more than just a few minutes between connections. The next train to Exeter is the 0858, some 35 minutes after my arrival at St Erth. There are earlier trains but I have booked the 0858. Upon alighting, I am joined by a ‘throng’ of commuters going to…? Most are young, college student types. I say ‘throng’ but to qualify as such requires far more bodies than the 4 currently sitting, texting, sleeping, headphoning on the bench on platform 2. The are also two men also waiting patiently for the train, dressed in everyday work gear, no doubt on their way to close deals on procuring pasty meat or a wide range of root vegetable based commodities. 

St Erth hosts a tea shop on platform 3. Upon entering you have walked back in time to the steam era, circa 1950 or even earlier. There is precious little in decor, furniture or snacks on offer to make you think otherwise. The walls are covered in railway memorabilia, posters from the 1930s extolling and depicting the virtues of steam travel to all the beauty spots of Britain including Clacton. A steam whistle can be heard as the Cambrian Coast Express clatters to Aberystwyth or the Cornish Riviera skirts Dawlish. The tea room is delightful and wholly in keeping with St Erth station itself which still has proper semaphore signals and a signal box.

A small brown pot of tea on a tray, with a china cup and saucer, a custard cream biscuit and a small glass bottle of milk. Cash. No cards. The tea pot is the gold standard of tea pots, not the stainless steel beloved of other cheaper cafes. You know the sort of steel tea pot I mean. It pours tea at angles that are always unpredictable and which defy the laws of fluid dynamics, while also dribbling down the spout to deposit hot tea onto your lap. Stainless steel danger traps have been around for decades, they should be collected and sold for scrap. The little brown ceramic tea pot is perfection. It has one job, and it does it perfectly without fuss. It is design genius. Whoever thought they could better it with steel, was a misguided fool at best. I’d personally design a version of hell for him. It has to be a man, no woman would ever be so arrogant or stupid so as to think perfection can be bettered. Female ego requires no lasting legacy to shore up the otherwise fragility of the male variety. The version of hell that awaits the steel tea pot designer includes a pot of hot tea, drips of scalding hot liquid dropping from it’s spout at minute intervals onto one of his baby smooth shaved, naked testicles. For eternity. 

Right on time, the 0858 arrives. For railway buffs, and you know who you are, it is a ‘short form HST’ of 4 coaches and a power car at each end. To the rest of you…this is the old HST that served for decades going between Paddington and Penzance, and between everywhere else in Britain until the introduction of the newer Hitachi built sets introduced recently on the network. Other trains you may have experienced are the old rackety slow, noisy rattlers such as the one that runs on branch lines. We arrive in Plymouth at 1048. Two hours later. GWR do not bother with buffet facilities on this stretch of line, on these ‘local trains’. This qualifies as a local as it terminates at Exeter. If you want refreshment you had better bring your own, or ask your personal assistant to organise it. A toilet is available upon request. Incontinence is frowned upon, apparently. Dehydration is your responsibility. Yet, this is far better than chancing your luck on the killing fields known as the British trunk road system. The seats are comfortable, wi fi is available and off peak there is plenty of room. The view of course is magnificent as one slices quietly though the rolling hills, tors and estuaries of Cornwall and Devon. 

I could drive to Saffron Waldon. 

In the past it has taken the best part of 7-8 hours. It would mean concentrating all of the way, staring at the road in the middle distance or at the myriad red tail lights heading for destinations such as Much Sodding, Little Sodding and Sodding Off Common in the shires between Plymouth and London. Some even drive to Swindon. I could brave the vagaries of the average British car driver whose skill and expertise in controlling the steel death trap that is your modern vehicle is in inverse proportion to their perceived competence and ego. I prefer to avoid the pouting selfie obsessed social media influencer driving on the M4 to make her next podcast on ‘mindfulness, lip gloss and self esteem’ (brought to you by L’Oreal), and driving while texting or crying because her muscle bound, shaven headed, boyfriend has been shagging her best friend (again). Or, the young lad thinking he is a F1 spunk muppet able to drive at 90 mph when the motorway is rammed with 3 lanes of backed up bollocks due to road works or ‘sheer volume of traffic’. Or the middle aged, middle class, middle England, middle lane crawler who thinks it “perfectly acceptable to drive at exactly 70 miles an hour because that is the speed limit anyway” while being blissfully unaware that traffic is building up behind for 10 miles as delivery drivers in white vans and articulated lorries begin to fume as deadlines pass and tachographs insist it is time to stop well before the destination is reached. The degree of pent up fury behind, boils over into risk taking, road rage and burst aneurysms while middle lane man continues unabashed at the mayhem behind. His wife at his side is merely thinking about what is for tea or how best to commit suicide. I could enjoy service stations. I could pay the GDP of Nigeria for a burger whose taste and consistency would rival that of baked cow dung, for coffee so weak that a doctor would put it on life support and for the experience of navigating the crowd of howling, spitting, pissing, crying humanity that passes for adulthood in transit or their alienated and demonic offspring demanding to be fed, watered and entertained for every waking second of their pitiful little meaningless lives…lives which will soon be wiped out in the coming climate catastrophe, a catastrophe whose only good point will be ending once and for all the incessant hell that is motorway traffic. 

Yes, I could drive. 

I could arrive spent. Drained of all energy, enthusiasm and zest for life. I could risk all on the throw of a dice, my life depending on the rest of stupid humanity staying awake and alert and actually paying attention to the road conditions as they actually are and not as seen on TV in car adverts, adverts whose grasp of reality is similar to that of a born again Christian’s views on evolution, same sex relationships and applying the healing powers of Jesus to victims of a nuclear explosion. 

I think the train is better. I can sleep, write, drink, breathe…in fact I can undertake most of the activities of daily living excepting ‘expressing sexuality’ and the tasks of ‘personal hygiene’. I can let my mind wander to things esoteric and ordinary; about pork pies, the 101 use of a paper clip or upon Hegelian dialectics and its application in post industrial capitalism. In my youth, I could peruse the opportunities and joys of sexuality on long journeys but those days are long gone. I prefer to think about pie based nourishment rather than nipples, about politics rather than pudenda and I cleave to my remaining vestiges of sanity rather than the various cleavages of rampant sensualities. I would no longer know what to do with it, if it offered to sit on my face. I would probably cry out in distress gasping for air. 

Teignmouth. Across the stillness of the estuary, the opposite bank is lightly clothed in mist. The water is glass. All is light brown and grey from mud to sky and yet in it stillness there is a quiet beauty. We have increase speed towards our destination. Topsham and Exmouth on one side, Powderham on our left. Green water meadows replace the estuary, the tower of Exeter cathedral looms out of the mist. Time for a short break. 

Starbucks. How does this strike me today as I wander along platform 1 at Exeter St David’s? I have an hour to spare before the 1306 to Paddington. What options do I have other than a coffee in Starbucks? I could write an article for the Guardian or the West Briton. I could sketch out a policy for addressing climate change adaptation programmes, I could work out some song lyrics? I could be sipping piña coladas in Mustique while planning the downfall of financial capitalism using only words, protest and the death of hope. Instead, in the cold and grey of a January sky, I amble towards Starbucks, for there shall I find the stillness of a quiet mind, the peace and love that surpasses all understanding and a flat white. 

A flat white. The coffee equivalent of mediocrity, so devoid of challenge or stimulus that it is offered as a soporific to the terminally deranged of mind and the dangerously active. Why I choose this inoffensive caffeine beverage at such times is probably down to paring down decision making to the barest minimum so as to save brain energy for more important matters such as paying attention to itches, day dreaming or watching the cloud smother all sense of optimism in the benevolence of destiny. As I step up to the counter to order, the phrase “flat white” trips off my tongue as if it has a life of its own. I’m not aware of exercising any conscious cognitive processing. This can only be a Pavlovian stimulus-response thing. The very kind and understanding young lady who takes my order then asks a question so unexpected that I’m momentarily stunned into bowel twitching confusion. I am well used to the paring conversational couplet of ‘give order-ask for money’ script that is then followed by two ‘thank yous’ (client and vendor), that I’m out of sorts when the unexpected happens. 

“Name?”

What?  Name? Mine, hers or the coffee’s? What is my name…and is that it? If so what shall I offer and does that matter? What is she going to do with it…check my bank account details or call Interpol? Of course, she needs it to write on the order !  It’s a Starbucks thing. Probably a Costa and a Nero’s thing as well? What if I give the same name as someone else in the queue? How would I know and would this result in a fracas as we both similarly named grapple with a flat white? Sharing a name is not improbable, nor is sharing the same order for a coffee. After all when you have exhausted the list of espresso, latte, mocha and cappuccino there is only one place left. The flat white. By my reckoning that is a mere 1 in 5 chance of ordering the same thing. You’d not want to live in a world with only a 1 in 5 chance of catching syphilis, being hit by a train or having to watch the One Show. Next time I’m taking a flask. It’s not worth the risk.

I cradle the mildly hot cup of coffee as I sit in the ‘cafe’. It has of course the little design in the froth so beloved of baristas which I think is their attempt to bring some joy into an otherwise joyless world. It is the sigh of the oppressed creature as it navigates the river of the vale of tears we call life. This coffee is the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people. Starbucks have not invested too much into making the seating area a place of rest and succour. Their business model must be “buy coffee-now fuck off”. As I sit I can hear my life ebbing away slowly with every silent tick of the clock that is my heart. I can hear a gaggle of American students at the next table. No doubt excited at their studies and life opportunities that Exeter University offers before the bitter pill of disappointment, ennui and pregnancy ruins their overblown dreams. That’s just the boys. They’ll be studying law or medicine with a naïve intention of ‘making a difference’, or some such total bollocks, with the unbounded enthusiasm of a cocker spaniel at walkies time not realising they are being taken to the vet for testicle removal. 

Youth is for the young, a truth as universal as is clichéd. I’ll leave them to their coffee and misplaced hope. 

Platform 5 for the 1306. 

Bright white, lights in the distance herald the arrival of the green, sleek, well oiled machine that slinks quietly into the station. It hums as it passes before stopping. It’s doors, starship enterprise in fashion, ooze open. I find my seat. 

Often on trains one may hear a child cry. There may be a drunk snoring. There are any manner of sounds to soothe one’s journey. Then there are those, who having partaken of a G and T or three, just talk. How do I know? Just one seat away, there is a party of women of indeterminate age on a ‘weekend away’ to London. I know this much because of the volume being turned up to 11. I am treated to a whole cornucopia of topics that roll into one another with no underlying coherent narrative or end point. Only when they fall asleep or are arrested will there be any respite. The topics are personal and incomprehensible spoken with a rapidity of speech to make one doubt one is hearing a known language. My ears start to bleed and I am starting to wish I was on the M25 being tailgated by white van man as I get stuck behind a middle lane crawler. They talk over each other and thus break all the normal rules of effective communication. I suspect the point however is not to pass information or to share knowledge but rather the point is just the sheer bloody joy of hearing ones own voice, with meaning being an add on rather than a necessary end.   Homo Sapiens developed a frontal cortex to facilitate quite complex cognitive processes, to the extent that we have had an Enstein (the physicist, not the alleged actress raper), a Darwin or even a Jeremy Kyle. I’m afraid the gift of coherent speech and narrative has been lost. Is murder acceptable on trains any more?

One has just had the temerity to state they have booked the ‘quiet coach’ on the way home, with absolutely no insight or irony. Good God…and oh no, they have returned to the contents of the dinner at Wetherspoons. 

I think I’ve just met the whole population of Cornwall in one go on the platform of Liverpool Street Station. The only difference is that they are at times better dressed, at times very badly dressed but otherwise anonymous. Just the sea of faces washing past me in waves of stress, stupidity and haste. This is where all of the young people are. I’ve noted before that in city centres those over the age of say, 55 have been banished or have wisely absented themselves. 

The tube from Paddington takes nearly 20 minutes and is relatively quiet given we have to pass through Kings Cross and Euston. I said, ‘stupid’ because I am prejudiced against city dwellers, especially in London. I left Carbis Bay this morning and as the train trundled around the first bend, the whole of Carbis Bay beach was before me, excruciatingly beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful. Why would I want ever to leave? One has to be stupid, right? At Liverpool Street I have an hour to kill and so I leave the station at the Bisphopsgate entrance. Emerging from the platforms below street level into the dusk of a London evening I am confronted by a seething mass of humanity all going somewhere while being in nowhere. Dusk? How can you tell when you are immediately hemmed in on all sides by huge steel and glass towers. The sky is up there somewhere. My vision, my view, is restricted to the distance of the width of the road which is rammed with traffic. 

You know London, if you’ve never been here you’ve seen it a thousand times on the tv and in films. 

I’m in Dirty Dicks pub listening again to wankers talking about their London ‘properties’ (Hampstead), yes that is plural. I’m near the epicentre of financial London, where the c*nts crashed the economy for which we are still paying. I’ve got this feeling before. I’ve lived too long now back in the fresh open air of Cornwall, jeez this is claustrophobic. The pub sells IPA and lager. That’s it. I asked for a bitter was offered a pale imitation of the stuff. Fashion can take its own arse and stuff it. The only drinkable beer was Guinness which is often the saviour for the more discerning palate. 

With 20 minutes to go I ‘amble’ back across the road. Again the wall of humanity presses in from all sides, all wired, all going at pace. I used to love the buzz, now it seems really weird. Have I changed? Without question. Have the cities changed? Without question. It is here among the deciders and the trapped that I feel the insolubility of our present predicament as a ‘civilisation’; so disconnected, so separate from our natures, from nature. I guess if the only thing you know is a glass cage, then you cannot think of another more beautiful world our hearts know is possible. Perhaps I’m overthinking, over feeling the disconnect I tangibly feel in the heart of the City, but disconnect it seems to be. 

I stand and wait for a few minutes underneath the orange lit information boards indicating which trains go to where from what platforms at what time. As I stand quite still, I am the lighthouse that sees the waves crashing endlessly around me. I’m convinced many if not all do not see me even as they pass right beside me, when at last my platform is displayed. 

The train consists of of 12 coaches. It is packed. Pretty much full now. The silence is deathly. Everyone is plugged in and networked. Everyone. There is absolutely no noise from a human voice. No one. I am surrounded by people but quite, quite alone. I think I’d be arrested as a weirdo if I started talking to someone, this being a commuter train…the 1737 to Cambridge. Isolated individuals going home to an isolated nuclear family. No wonder we are able easily to divide, separate, avoid. Our monkey brains are crying out for mutual back scratching and tick picking but it ain’t happening. Lost in a world of false dreams, striving to achieve what exactly? If this is how you treat your humanity day in and day out no wonder you need soma, booze, drugs or the glamour of other worlds on the tv big screen to filter out the alienation or a day spent in limbo. No amount of therapy is ever going to make this better. Mindfulness? I’m sitting being mindful of my immediate environment,  and frankly it is shit. I’ll not be mindful, I’ll drink instead. Except there is no buffet or refreshments at all on offer. This is not the first time I’ve palpably felt stressed in London. I look around but no one seems to be. Dare say I’m not giving out any signs and my heart rate is fine. So it must be a mental thing. I need art right now, I need sky and light. I need a fine wine, opera house, favourite melodies…I see toys, boys, electric irons and TVs. My brain hurts like a warehouse, there is so much room in there. 

Another 30 minutes and I’ll be in Audley End, near Saffron Waldron. Sanity beckons in the form of two old friends and a bottle of something nice.

It’s been over 10 hours now. I think I’ve had enough. 

A bientôt. 

Mustique Musing

19th January 2020

Dear Dom.

Mustique. Oh how my old housemaster would have loved it there, if only he could have curtailed his twice weekly felching trips to Soho. “Semper quivering, boy, semper quivering…never forget!”  He’d whisper in the snug in the ‘Nanny and Spanker’ in rain soaked Windsor. 

After the election, a jolly old bit of R and R in the sunshine has done me the power of good. Carrie made me put away the phone, and I did not bother with the papers or the Beeb. I was then able to relax, soak up the sun and think of new ways of using the broken dreams of stupid Northerners in my next campaign. My God you should have seen the beaches here…The problems of Workington are as welcome a thought as a festering polyp on my penis during the saturnalia festivities at the Bullingdon, so thank goodness I have…er, whose the Home Secretary? Patel?, to take care of things back home. 

Now, to business. What’s occurring?

We have to get Brexit done, or some-such. I trust you’ve briefed the Cabinet on their roles? I want to reiterate my position on this. I am the figurehead, the lightening rod if you will. I will say what is required at times to the journos, but the detail I’ll leave to those who give a fuck. 

I heard a whisper or something about Iraq? Iran? Raab is on it I trust? Keep an eye on him, he is as useful as a dead cat in a rusty fire bucket. I’d trust him about as far as I’d trust Jimmy Saville at a 1970’s children’s summer camp in Llandudno. Raab’s got the look of something sharp and pointy in the night about him. So, Iran or Iraq…or Indonesia? Let me know. 

Saj is on top of the budget…so thats’s foreign, home and money taken care of. 

I am apt to wonder what the fuss was about being PM. Being surrounded by the likes of the Saj, Raab and Priti “you looking at me?” Patel, makes the job a piece of piss actually. 

What else is there? Gove? What is he up to? Polishing that arsehole he uses for a mouth no doubt. Mind, I mustn’t complain, I’ve got staff, advisors, the internet and Carrie and her ilk to ease the troubles of the day away. Life is quite peachy right now. We’ve killed socialism stone dead for a decade or perhaps permanently, we’ve got the yanks offering the greatest trade deal, ever. Oh, give H and M a call will you, give them my regards, Was rather fond of M, she was welcome in any of my ‘suits’ at any time. 

So. Is that it? Anything else I should be taking a look at? Australia? 

Mustique. “if you like piña coladas” *sigh*

Pip pip

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

Rachman is not dead.

I have often wondered how I can make a few quid, legally. The obvious answer is to ‘flog my bottom’ to the highest bidder, to someone who promises to take good care of my buttocks and the associated orifice which, I should hasten to add, I would not include in the contract. Being a ‘man of means by no means’, I am open to selling my labour without access being granted to the aforementioned anatomical structure, which I like to refer to as “This precious hole set in the hairy sea, which serves it as the orifice of a wall”. The fact that I have the option to sell or not to sell my labour or ring, is a blessing of the magnitude that certain Jihadi terrorists must feel when contemplating their virginal welcome in Jannah upon pressing the button to send one testicle into orbit and the other into crow fodder.

There is a long and proud (?) tradition in this country of selling bits of one’s body, or the whole of it, to men of power, wealth and vulgarity. To men whose wives are bored, worn out or have discovered the joy of lesbianism; to men who have spent too much time at sea; to men late at night within the Palace of Westminster bars and to men who like to take a risk while wanking. There is an equally long tradition of men who like to use their positions of wealth and power to gain entry into the lost lives of young boys and girls, especially those whose relationship to the ‘means of production, distribution and exchange’ is one characterised by an imbalance of power. These unfortunates are born into a world in which not only are silver spoons missing, but so is the complete canteen of cutlery, the box it came in and the whole panoply of love and security. Not for them cosseted entry into ‘good schools’ and the opportunity to listen to old Dons in Oxbridge pontificating on about what some entitled thinker such as Thomas Hobbes in the 17th century thought about poor people’s lives while he dined on Quail gizzard and a decent Claret served in the hollowed out skull of a local peasant who died of a nasty, brutish and short infection.

During the last few centuries in civilised nations such as Great Britain, extracting rent literally from the bodies of the poor has been a defining feature. In this endeavour we have been an ‘equal opportunity’ employer. Babies, toddlers, children, teenagers (if they got that far) as well as women, men of all colours and none, have been in ready supply to offer all manner of services. All of them need a roof over their heads and so owning little in the way of receptacles in which to piss, when inheritance means passing on a genetic defect and poor personal hygiene, they have to come to the ‘market’ in order to offer anything at all. Anything.

Spare babies were sold off as food for the foxhounds, toddlers were sent into small dark cramped places which needed cleaning…that included u bends in toilets, cottage chimneys and the underpants of the local land owner, often while he still wore them. Children and teenagers kept the Royal Navy afloat by working in the gundecks supplying gunpowder to gun crews; they kept the spinning jenny’s, er, spinning and with their bare hands picked up the dung deposited by pit ponies in Welsh coal mines while all of the time singing in close harmony “All things bright and beautiful” in an attempt to keep their spirits up. They were glad of the work, for without it their grandparents (at this time aged about 32) would die slow lingering deaths of black tooth rot, syphilis and fear.

Adults knew that the five giant evils stalked the land. Squalor, Ignorance, Want, Idleness and Disease, all 5 of them embodied in the local magistrates, land and factory owners, and Members of Parliament who all could extract any amount or type of rent they required due to the festering desperation of the smelly, diseased, emaciated huddled masses. If you happened to be blessed with the ‘fat gene’ as a dairy maid and thus avoided the emaciating ravages of hunger, you could find yourself a nice little sideline in the local town plying your ‘wares’ for gentlemen of leisure. In return for a penny, after dark one could offer exotic services behind the stables at the local inn, the ‘Cock and Spanker’, in such diverse places as Whitby and Chislehurst or under the pier in Wigan. A Gentleman could also buy services in quaint country villages such as ‘Little Bottom, Big Bottom’ and ‘Much Probing’.

In the 1950s the practice was updated a little. Exploitative renting out was given a new twist by such landlords as Peter Rachman, whose practices were so deplorable that his name was used to describe them. ‘Rachmanism‘ was born, although in truth it had existed for centuries. This ‘enlightened philanthropist’ owned dilapidated and slum property in Notting Hill, London, and used intimidation to drive out any sitting tenants that had a low rent. He embodied ‘laissez faire’ capitalism in all of its glorious guises – little regulation, no rent controls, absent inspection, no recourse for appeal. Rachman subdivided properties and let them out for prostitution. No doubt certain MPs cheered him on based on the theory that regulating the housing market would remove properties from availability, pointing to Rachman’s subdivisions being an example of increasing the number of rental accommodation.

circa 1960: Peter Rachman, a London property owner who made a fortune as a slum landlord of West Indian immigrants in West London, pictured at his desk. (Photo by Paul Popper/Popperfoto via Getty Images/Getty Images)

It is an argument not unlike having a systematic programme of killing old people in care homes during a shortage of funeral directors in order to entice new entrants into the market. The alternative of course is to provide more positive incentives for trainee undertakers so that your Gran doesn’t fear a knock at her door at midnight by a black hooded scythe wielder.

Well it seems the ghost of Rachman is back.

The housing charity Shelter polled 4,000 private renters. They concluded that private renting is making millions of people ill with almost half of England’s 8.5 million renters experiencing stress or anxiety and a quarter made physically sick as a result of their housing. This is being put down to unaffordable rents, poor living conditions and the risk of eviction. About 2.7 million people feel hopeless while more than 2 million have been made physically ill. The Health Foundation estimated in 2017, that 1 in 5 houses doesn’t meet decent standards in England. Hovels have a place of course, they act as incentives for ‘Top Cornflakes‘ to rise, and if people are too stupid to get on in life, well that is just Darwinism in action. “Hitler was not wrong about everything” said Sir Edward, Charles, Alexander Boris deCuntface Avarice-Coming of Fuckemall Castle, “cleansing the gene pool is of course desirable, but we just have to be careful of the methods”.

Perhaps if more selling of one’s bottom was encouraged (other bodly entrances are available upon request) and was undertaken by the poor, then they would be able to afford a decent property. They have only themselves to blame. Many are the ‘worse idlers in the world’ or lack aspiration and drive , they are ‘drunk, criminal and feckless‘, ill-raised, ignorant, aggressive and illegitimate‘. “And that is just their good points” said a billionaires’ flaxen haired spokesperson while sipping piña coladas in Mustique.

Cry God for Harry…!

There are times when one would like one’s partner to take a little bit more notice. Everyday life is full of the mundane, and the necessary, and often with very little glamour. There might be something important going on but the drudgery and the distractions of little things are apt to blind us to realities. Getting attention these days is not easy unless you are the President of the United States who has cornered that market. Glitz or Celebrity is possibly the way to go, if you wish to avoid the Trumpian method of bombast and narcissistic stupidity.

I have tried cooking breakfast wearing a tutu, a leopard skin thong and a little bit of glitter glued to my nipples, while also dancing around to the sound track of Mama Mia! on a cold drizzly Sunday morning, in an attempt to inject a little of the ‘Strictly’ magic, and to draw her gaze up from the ipad. This was as successful as fishing for compliments about one’s new Sassoon haircut during the Poll tax riots.

“Darling, the kitchen’s on fire!” I’d joke as the bacon spittles in the frying pan. This comment was greeted by a wall of silence that could block out the sound of a nuclear explosion.

“Chicken lickin has just told me the sky is falling in, there is a pus pox pestilence ravishing the countryside and the powers of Mordor have found the ring”.

Silence.

However, just mention the goings on in the House of Windsor and suddenly attention is turned to 11. The current spat concerns a millionaire couple’s decision to move to Canada and to stop playing at dressing up and burning the prols. The new story has taken the heat off a certain Prince’s prediliction for self absorption and a little light hymen stretching in dimly lit but opulent New York apartments, once owned by the sort of man who ruled countries or who ran large multinational corporations whose business model involved child slavery, sex trafficking and peddling propaganda.

The story is so serious that the whole of the UK press and broadcast media have gone into meltdown trying to cover every single angle possible. We have a bit of casual racism, tenderised with misogyny, spite and obnoxous obseqiousness. We have been told there is something called Frogmore House, a ‘cottage’ paid for by the tax payer with enough bedrooms to house the residents of Grenfell Tower. Remember them? No, of course not because they have all been rehoused in happy luxury in Henley-on-Thames and other nice home counties towns as the largesse of the State has been poured in their direction. They will be reading their morning papers, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice at breakfast while their staff do the cleaning. They’ll be warning their teenage daughters about the dangers of either marrying princes or being left alone with one after a line of coke and a bottle of fizz in Mustique or the 30 room Royal Lodge in Windsor.

Harry has had the temerity to marry a woman who might want to have a say in her life. Fancy that! Oh, and she is a bit…you know…well, let’s just say “American” shall we?

There must be absolutely fuck all happening elsewhere in the UK or the world as the journalists vie with each other to discuss the finer points of Royal protocol and history. It is as if they are trying to distract us from something, or to fill our heads with so much trash as to elbow out any critical thinking about the baseless anachronist nature of Monarchy in the first place.

‘Monarchy’. Yes…it is 2020. You’d think? An institution as much revered by the proletariat as it is by the chinless wonders of the denizens of Downton Abbey and their numerous illigitimate offspring now living in Hamstead and Kensington. I’d have thought that by now we would have grown out of our childish habits and interests in the same way we gave up sucking at mother’s breast, pulling the legs off spiders and exploring the deeper, dark, hidden parts of our bodies with small household objects and vaseline. Just me?

I’ve as much interest in the intra-familial squabblings goings on of millioniare landowners and their sprogs as I have in the spring mating rituals of the common or garden earthworm. I do want to know how much wealth they have, how they got it, who protects it, what justifies it and how many animals die in the process. It might be of interest to know if the Queen is still alive or if a body double has been recruited just to piss off Charles, or whether Philip is planning to emulate Mountbatten in organising a coup against anyone with a funny northern or foreign accent and vaguely dark skin, or how many sixth form precosiously matured schoolgirls have been invited to tea at Andrew’s without their fathers’ knowledge.

We will not be told, because they want us watching a soap opera instead.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen I finally got her attention by popping the cork on a bottle of fizz, a sound her ears are finely attuned to.

Radio 4 Listeners

Radio 4 is a channel on the BBC which features a relatively wide variety of mainly talk programmes. I assume it had its origins when the BBC took seriously its remit not only to entertain, but also to educate and inform. It is a channel one switches to when one reaches the age at which Radio 1 becomes far too shouty, and plays the type of music your mum and dad complained of, involving comments about it being too much about sex and “you can’t hear the words”. This is a phrase which entered the lexicon of musical critique in 1954 and is repeated every decade by those whose teenage years are but distant memories and whose prostates are larger than their willies.

Radio 2 is a gateway channel between the two, and carries its own risks. At first one may tune in to Radio 2 once a day at breakfast time, but if the move to Radio 4 is not quickly made, one is liable to be trapped within its soul sucking vortex of the Jeremy Vine show, the anodine ‘Pop Masters’, which features questions about ‘popular music’ that only the institutionalised in secure units of a psychiatric or care establishment can answer, and endless traffic reports about sheep pile ups on the M6 in Cumbria.

Aficionados of the Vine show will know that ‘topical’ issues are discussed. I say discussed, I don’t think there is a word in English that adequately captures the full level of the depth of ignorance, ill thought through opinion, bluster and stupidity that passes for comments on periennial topics such as the Royal Family, Boris Johnson’s hair and the price of biscuits. The sort of people who phone in might well be honing their skills, insularity and middle england, middle class prejudices in order to promote themselves onto Radio 4 programmes such as ‘Any Answers’.

Local radio, in my case Radio Cornwall, boasts its own ‘talk shows’ on which any number of slack jawed yokels, inbred slope browed countryfolk – the pride of ‘rural idiocy’ – and the retired gentlefolk of the Tory Shires, bored with spouting boorish comments at any passing tradesman in the Home counties and so moved West for a fresh less critical audience, feel entitled to drivel banality upon cliche upon shit. This is the lower leagues of stupidity, whose players lack the ambition, or the energy or the ability to piss straight enough to move into the Championship League of Vine on Radio 2.

An average Radio Cornwall phone-in features calls from neurotic cat ladies who think they are being spied on by the Chinese, a goat hugger from Tintagel and ex farm labourers who can still remember the horse and plough but not what they had for breakfast. Presenters, for what reason I know not, often give them 10 minutes to say something that could be said in 10 seconds or preferably not at all. I would not dare to bore a sharp clawed tom cat with the complaints that issue out of the radio. Many of these folk cannot progress to Vine let alone Any Answers, they are the sort that gives Norfolk its reputation.

And yet.

On Any Answers today, within 5 minutes, the quality of call from three ‘listeners’ was poor enough to cast any residual doubts I had about humanity’s right to continued existence, into oblivion. The level of deference to Authority would make a Feudal Lord blush and his peasants mutter ‘have some respect for yourselves’. The presenter made it known that the majority of callers wanted to discuss the goings on of a millionaire couple whose lives resemble their own as much as a skipful of dead kittens resembles a toddler’s ball pit.

On Iran, basically the call was “meh, nuke the fuckers”. When asked why by the presenter, the answer was a different version of “meh, nuke the fuckers’, all said in the sort of no nonsense northern accent of a middle manager of a pie factory in Wigan. Knowledge of geopolitics, history and diplomacy is seen as a distinct disadvantage for this type of caller who suspects only the ‘liberal lefty pooftahs down in the smoke’ need recourse to such. Why bother with reading anything when you have nukes? A Mrs Trellis of North Wales phoned in to say that “If that nice Mr Trump wants to bomb Iran, I would be willing to polish his missile to ensure maximum penetration, and thats something the late Mr Trellis always talked about.”

Voltaire was a French Enlightenment writer, deist and philosopher who perceived the French bourgeoisie to be too small and ineffective, the aristocracy to be parasitic and corrupt, the commoners to be ignorant and superstitious. He also distrusted democracy which he saw as propagating the idiocy of the masses. Radio 4 phone in shows would only confirm him in his prejudices. In 2020, we do not have to look very far, just tune in any day to hear English bourgeoie commentators blathering on about civilising the fuzzy wuzzies by bombing them, English aristocrats dribbling about tax while clubbing fox cubs into furry red soaked pulp and the commoners asking to ‘get Brexit done’ by kicking out the foreigners and force feeding fish and chips to the French.

The average Radio 4 caller is a c*nt.

Most of my friends are failures…

Useless buggers, the lot of them.

First of all they failed to be born to very rich parents. I don’t mean the sort of ‘rich’ people who can shop in Waitrose…I mean the sort of rich people who probably own Waitrose and most of Argyll and Bute. The sort that call their personal concierge doctors ‘staff’, the sort who enjoy burning £50 notes in the faces of children dying of cancer in hospital and think nothing of spending a £1,000 on diamond encrusted loo rolls made of paper that wipes your arse for you.

Secondly, they failed at going to a ‘good’ school aka Eton, Winchester and Harrow and then failed to get into an ‘elite university’ such as Oxbridge. They instead were part of the common herd relegated by successive Tory and Tory lite governments to an education in which success is measured by getting to the sixth form without being buggered by the Gym teacher while retaining some semblance of self esteem after years of acne filled self abuse. They failed at getting into a school which will fast track one’s opportunity to run the country by providing you with an ego in inverse proporation to ability while fashioning some facade of competence onto an otherwise incompetant smug but smooth face.

Thirdly, they failed at getting a FTSE 100 Chief Executive Officer’s job in which they receive, not earn, over £3 million per year in salary alone. This failure to sharp elbow their way into positions of executive power has meant for most of them, they have to forego the agonies of finding tax accountants and corporate lawyers in which to hide their wealth offshore in tax havens. They then have to forego the pleasure of whining about how much tax they do pay, bleating on about themselves being ‘tax heroes’ while pleading a poverty that reduces their consumption of quails eggs and caviar to the barest minimum so that at their dinner parties the Saudi Prince has to send out for a KFC instead (Goat salad with an eyeball side being a firm favourite I hear).

Many have failed to be born a upper middle class white man, and instead chose to be born female and some of them even choose to be an ethnic minority! This results in the failure to easily accumulate wealth because the work they do either pays little or nothing at all. Child care, cleaning, cooking, catering, and caring for older people are all jobs many of them ‘chose’ without realising the absence of holiday pay, a decent pension and decent hourly rates made them the original gig economy and zero hours workers! Losers! Instead, they get to revel in clearing up the faeces produced by the owners of the very mouths they fed earlier in a never ending circle of hell that cannot be easily outsourced except to other poorly paid women who pay more in tax than their CEO does.

Then, oh the shame, they failed at becoming ‘celebrities’ – they have avoided becoming known for doing something quite well, something that we might like to (and often can) do ourselves, like singing a bit, dressing up on stage or running fast. They failed in even trying to be the best, and then in forgetting that for every Ed Sheeran, Jennifer Aniston or Usain Bolt, there are thousands of ‘failures’ who either missed being picked up by the music industry, fail to get ‘the’ part due to the enormous competition or are just a second slower.

One thing my friends do share is failure to be total c*nts (well, a few are and they know who they are !) But, ‘failure’ to be wealthy, famous and socially connected is very very common, it is everywhere and is to be embraced. Failure is not to be measured by wealth, schooling, or visibility. Failure is to be found in not sharing our common humanity, in not realising our common purpose, in not understanding or caring about others’ hurts and personal failures. Failure is being surrounded by great wealth while nurturing a self absorbed, narcississtic, arrogant poverty of spirit that stigmatises, blames and shames those less ‘successful’. Failure is relegating compassion and care to be of secondary importance to accounting for the bottom line.

I’m glad my friends are that sort of failure.

Life is a box of…

Sir Jacob Rees-Mogg, Esq, owner of Wessex and the little village of Much Smattering in the Cotwolds, has announced that the annual thrashing of the peasantry working on his estate, will now take place in full public view on Much Smattering’s village green. To date this little known event has been unreported save for a short sentence after the obituaries and the ‘jam for sale’ advertisements in the village paper, ‘The Smattering Local’. Sources close to the Rees-Mogg’s personal computer have let it be known that since the Johnsonian Westminster coup, toffs all over England have been celebrating with Gin and Insouciance, and now feel emboldened enough to resurrect old feudal traditions such as hanging, flogging and touching up the village maidens. The tradition of ‘droit de siegneur‘ has also been spoken of in the quiet of club bars in London and in the old shire country houses. Shares in companies producing genital wart cream, luxury ribbed condoms and gimp masks have soared at the news, resulting in a bump in GDP by 0.1%.

Lord Codpiece of Fuckthemall Castle, a dear friend and supporter of working class disenfranchisement, was particulary delighted to hear of the more public events planned by ‘The King of Wessex’ as Rees-Mogg is affectionaly known by his mum, and sarcastically known by the lumpen proletariat, although he was just a little disappointed that crucifixion was to be delayed pending further research on its benefits to the Treasury. “I have a big bag of nails and quite a few thorn bushes on my land, should the call come” Codpiece tweeted “so bring ’em on…any contempt or lack of humility and deference will be met with buckshot and whips #Imacunt #Poshprivilege #GodisEnglish”

A lady loves a box of chocolates, it is said. Aristocrats and wannabee toffs are queueing up to offer any available Lady (or boy, or pig) the benefit of their felching attentions knowing that resistance from the pretty yet poor maidens in Northern Towns is now at an all time low. All feminine ‘ports’ are now ‘free ports’ and any entrance is accessible to those blessed with money, entitlement and recourse to a good lawyer in case of any #metoo resistance. Even those ugly enough to scare a wart hog away from his rooting or a dog from his vomit, will benefit. Sir Rees-Mogg’s public thrashing of the peasants will serve to remind the horny handed sons and daughters of toil where exactly their place is.

Boris Johnson, when informed of Sir Rees-Mogg’s intentions, issued a statement “Ah, yes..um…indeed it is so…’Gloriana in Semper Rectum’ as my old housemaster used to say in the snug of the ‘Spanker and Sphincter’ in Windsor. Hurrah!”

Kernow

In a surprise move today the inhabitants of St Micheal’s Mount have declared Independence from Cornwall, in what they call a Kerexit. The new country of ‘Kernow-on-Sea’ will be created and passports issued to those citizens that have sentience, a bit of cash stashed away, and all of their toes.

It is rumoured the passports will have the Cornish tartan on their covers and in no way, said a spokesperson, do they resemble the Devon and Cornwall railcard, only with the words ‘Devon’ and ‘Railcard’ replaced with a sticker which says ‘Passport’.

There will be a dry hard border on the causeway when the tide is out and a moist wet border when it is in. They have yet to decide what sort of border will exist between the tides. Frictionless trade is planned for the importation of pasties and clotted cream, but other ‘English’ foodstuffs will have a tariff imposed, except for beer. And pies. They like pies. There might be a further period of negotiation to decide what else is enjoyed on the island. This could take ages, perhaps even up to next Thursday. 

Foreign relations have not been decided upon, but Denzil Penperthy (the interim Island Prime Minister) after consultation with Trevor, Nigel and Demelza in the Kings Head in Marazion, said…”the English can definitely f*ck off…the Yanks need not apply but we are happy to greet our Celtic cousins from the Atlantic Fringes as long as they bring cider, pork and wenches”. At this news, a cheer could be heard in a few bars in Roscoff. An application has been made to rejoin the EU “but only the nice bits, with sunshine and chips…not those places serving foreign muck” affirmed Denzil. 

The move was a result of Cornwall voting leave in the EU referendum, with the final straw being the election of English Tory MPs throughout the county. To the proud islanders (Denzil and his mates at least) this results in Cornwall being a vassal state of England, a complaint with a long history ever since old Trelawney lived or died*. 

“Tiddint right, tiddint proper..all these bleddy English coming down and voting, then think they own the bleddy place”. When it was pointed out that actually they do, that St Ives is wholly owned by a family from Chelsea, and that Camborne and Redruth were part of a ‘buy one get one free’ deal involving Padstow, a low murmuring could be heard in the snug at the King’s Head. 

“oh, bugger off will ‘ee, and fetch me a pasty from Philps…whose for cakey tea?”

*we can safely say now that he did indeed die. Eventually.

Trains don’t stop…

Clouds of billowing white steam engulfed the stoically waiting passengers standing on the platform, as the black face of the engine emerged through the swirling mists and smoke. The loud hissing accompanied by short squeal of metal brake on metal wheel sliding the whole train to a gentle stop. The 1930’s was the golden age for steam railways in Britain, unsurpassed for spectacle, romance and of course coal dirt. Today, being Wednesday, witnesses the approach, the flash by and the disappearance of the Gravy Train Express at Camborne. 

The 1930s. We thought we were special back then. Turns out that was our apex, our summit, our ultimate before the slow descent into neo-feudalist dystopia in which arrogant, ill educated toffs – the products of elite schools and universities – not only ride the gravy train, they are guard, driver and fireman giving not a toss for the speed of the approaching buffers and caring not which terminus they arrive in. Towns like Camborne and Redruth are not even on the timetable.