nce upon a time… in the Lifcard Village settlement of Wallafey, ensconced within the fiefdom of Merfeyfide, situated in the outermost, north western, seafaring extremities of the grand English realm – was a building …with a window.

But not just any window. This was a window of confequence.

Yea, and with regard to this very window, the humble townsfolk of Wallafey came upon fresh, official musings laid out within an United Kingdom Party of Labour, National Executive Committee (NEC) scroll. This beckoned them to come hither, to grasp and unfurl it, then gaze upon an wondrous, yet dependable tale of truth.

But well in advance of this pile of shite tumbling forth before coming to rest upon parchment, an account had been previously set down elsewhere that on the eleventh or twelfth day of the seventh month of the year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Sixteen, this window of confequence had been attacked by a person unknown – and one who remains unheralded to this day – whom it is assumed had been weaponifed for his task with ftone mafonf‘ expendablef, and had been wont to cast them thither in anger and being fleet of foot, to make good his escape – probably to Hereford-upon-Wye – whereupon he would secure concealment inside an elevated domicile or “block of flats”, never to return.

Not even to gaze upon and admire his handiwork, whilst clutching his sides and falling down in mirth.

To summarise, the window –  later dubbed The Window of #Brickgate – had suffered a heretofore calamitous breakage of its glazed component parts.

For the purposes of the telling of this tale, the damage upon which we shall focus was of such a degree that it caused local Party of Labour maiden-at-arms, Angela of the Eagles – a figure of note, whose parliamentary function was exercised not 20 short yards away from the point of impact – to wail, gnash her teeth, and bring forth words which would bode ill, yea, verily, even unto local and national scribes of the journal sat around their printing preffes, minding their own business.

These quill bearers of yore, had about their role and function one prime and customary duty – to receive, to carry hence, and to set out with due embellishment and finery a display of noteworthy happenings, fetched from afar, before the eyes of their readers, who would be domiciled in settlements throughout the land, and who would be waiting in their millions, with attendant eagerness for such bollockf to arrive. They would expect their daily scrolls to be stacked up at the threshold of the agent of news’ premises each morning before the cock crows.

In every township in the land, this rabble would descend upon these outlets in their hordes, pushing each other aside with great savagery, falling upon the scrolls, seizing them hither, carrying them hence, and making off without even fucking paying.

Once back at their dwelling places they would cast their eyes downward, and drink in every word with great gusto. Verily, once done, they would become smitten and intoxicated upon purview of the contentf .

But far more importantly – and well beknownst to fine Angela – they would seek to convey these latest foul tidings by word of mouth to every last corner of the kingdom, even unto the ears of the illiterate and the lowest of brow.

With this useful factor to the forefront of her thinking, Angela of the Eagles did take it upon herself – even with no good cause or prior finding of fact – to blame the Window of #Brickgate happenings upon some geezer with a beard – Jezzer of the Corb-yn – a man who had always held forth in public as the beatific, smiling leader of the United Kingdom Party of Labour, but who resided many leagues hence in Islington, within the City of London, and who was nowhere near the frigging Wallafey window on that day.

And even if this cyclist of note had taken it upon himself to mount his creaking, two-wheeled apparatus, traversing the well-beaten M6 thoroughfare to arrive in Lifcard, dismount, remove his bicycle clips, then hide them beneath the saddle for safety, he would have been too shagged out to even lift a brick, never mind muster up the resolve needed to hasten forth and commit the horrendous deed.

Reader, your forbearance is now required as we return to the NEC official report noted prior, upon which we brought the commencement of this tale…

Seated in his London headquarters, Iain of the Clan McNicol – he of general and secretariat leaning – was the foremost Party of Labour figurehead and had had taken it upon himself to toil long into the night upon the administration of this #Brickgate matter. McNicol’s primary duty this day was to render to parchment many and sundry emerging #Brickgate thoughts. To the resulting document he would vouchsafe an ‘forsooth, without prejudice’ caveat.

However, upon quill meeting ink, McNicol took pause, pondering to himself with increasing malice aforethought, “damn and blast the ‘forsooth, without prejudice’ bollockf, for it is old hat” and set forth in its stead with a darkly-wrought approach, where he opted for…

• inn-u-endo
• hyper of the bole;
• and yea, even outrageous spin…

…all as cunning devices, to cause to stretch and manipulate the actual unfolding of events, to ensure they would approximate to his own hitherto dreamt-up version, and thereby give cause to blacken the names of any jumped-up local Wallafey Party of Labour ruffians – who’d been fool enough to invest notions of misplaced loyalty into Jezzer of the Corb-yn.

Excerpt from the McNicol NEC report…

And so with vengeful haste, these published words occasioned hurt and malice upon those lowborn Wallafey-based party brethren whom, following an AGM on the twenty-fourth day of the fifth month, had already been clobbered around the backs of their heads and laid out prostrate. Presently they’d been aroused, carried forth, lofted hence and strung naked from the rafters of Ye Cherry Tree Shopping Centre, Lifcard – opened with great fanfare back in the day by the now departed Prifcilla-of-the-Black. There they had hung, bare as newborn cherubs, but in deepest shame, on full public display,  and as part of a show of strength.

And thus had a great foreboding been wrought to give pause to the local public, tradespersons, farmers and their livestock, and to make known what fate awaits those who stop to muse (thought crime) or to give voice of such to the ear of their betters (criminal slander). But also, yea, to anybody in the land who may in complete foolishness contemplate writing down their musings (criminal libel), stepping out of line (criminal betrayal) or questioning the undoubted honour and greatness of their superiors (criminal impertinence).  And lo, the party seniors’ greatness should forsooth in all the circumstances be heeded, treasured and kept next to a party aco-lyte’s heart where it should be held in the highest of esteem.

And there was the reckoning for those who’d gone the extra mile and had dared to call into question the innocent activities and heretofore shining reputation of Angela of the Eagles, who’d been Bridlington born, had chanced upon the Wallafey seat with great fortune, and with an additional nod to the Star Chamber of Lord Hatter of the Sly and Lord Kin of the Nock, circa ’92 before assuming her throne.

Verily, a lady of good standing was Angela of the Eagles, a known and practised public servant of yore, and one who would never think to betray Jezzer of the Corb-yn, even as she posed for publicity shots for her recently announced leadership campaign, aimed at usurping the bastard.

Clad in her finery, there she stood on a raised dias, enquiring of her PR man, “Imran, is this my good side?” whilst bedecked in garments of bright hue, pink of colour. One in particular was a natty, stylish number, a vivid tunic that smited the eyes if gazed upon too long.

Even attired thus, she’d been comfortable and at ease prancing around before boxes of visual record known as TV cam-eraf that sent imagef to larger and even stranger boxef of difplay – known as people’s tele-vifionf – and all this carried on with no shame amongst strategically positioned samples of party merchandife; throwaway tat that put one in mind of the wretched and malodorous contents of the incense shoppe owned and stocked for superior custom by the wholefaler Mr Chanel in nearby Frank of the Fields’ Beirut-next-to-the-sea.

And lo, it came to pass in the very next month, Angela’s actions, including treacherous leadership bid, carried out openly yet in bad faith, became regarded askance, and viewed as a naked ploy of enchantment, to advance what has since become a cruelly forsaken political career, all done to rescue her own moribunded fortunes...

TO BE CONTINUED>>>>