nce upon a time…
…good, humble townsfolk heard tell of words scribed upon an United Kingdom Party of Labour, National Executive Committee (NEC) official missive, which proceeded along the lines…
…that in the Lifcard Village quarter of the 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.
It was further written that on the eleventh or twelfth day of the seventh month of the year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Sixteen, the window of which we speak was attacked by a person unknown – and who remains unheralded to this day – whom it is assumed was armed with stone mafons’ expendables, and was able to cast them thither in anger and, being fleet of foot, make good his escape – probably to Hereford-upon-Wye – but never to return.
Not even to gaze upon and admire his handiwork, whilst clutching his sides and falling down in mirth.
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 focus was of such a degree that it caused local Party of Labour maiden-at-arms, Angela of the Eagles – a figure of note, and 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 sat at 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, carry forth and embellish the telling of noteworthy incidents to the eyes of their readers, domiciled for their own comfort in settlements throughout the land, and who waited in their millions, with attendant eagerness for such bollockf to arrive, expecting the daily scrolls to be stacked up at the threshold of the agent of news’ premises every morning before the cock crows.
This rabble of readers would descend upon these outlets in their hordes, pushing each other out of the way with great savagery, and would fall upon the scrolls, seize them hither and carry them hence …without effing paying.
Once back at their dwelling places they would drink in every word and become intoxicated, smitten, tired and emotional, simply upon purview of the contentf.
And with this factor in mind, Angela of the Eagles did take it upon herself – and with no good cause or prior finding of fact – to blame the Window of #Brickgate happenings upon some geezer with a beard who resided many leagues hence in Islington, within the City of London, and who was nowhere near the frigging window on the day.
And even if he’d cycled up the well-beaten thoroughfare known as the M6, all the way to Wallafey, would have been too shagged out to lift a brick, never mind happen upon the energy to remove his bicycle clips upon arrival, store them under his saddle for safety, and then hasten forth, mustering up his last remaining ounce of resolve, to commit the foul deed.
Anyway, forget that. More to the point, this cyclist of note answered to the name of Jezzer of the Corb-yn, and would hold forth in public as the wonderful, smiling, recently elected leader of the United Kingdom Party of Labour.
Now, good readers, bear with us whilst we venture back to the aforementioned NEC official report upon which we sought commencement of our tale…
Iain of the McNicol clan, son of Obidiah and daughter of Jezebel, was the uppermost Party of Labour figurehead – of general and secretariat leaning – whom, seated in his London headquarters, had taken it upon himself to toil long into the night upon the administration of such matters, and who beheld it as his primary duty to render to parchment many and sundry emerging thoughts, in a document which, prior to publication, he would confidently choose to describe as an ‘without prejudice’ report.
However – upon dipping his sharpened quill into a nearby reservoir of octopus ink – Iain of clan McNicol thought to himself, “damn and blast the ‘without prejudice’ bollockf, for it is old hat” and set forth in its stead with increasing malice aforethought, taking studious care to employ…
- hyper of the bole;
- ex of the aggeration and yea, even;
- outrageous sm of the ear…
…all with the purposeful intention of manipulating truth and the ac-tual unfolding of events so that they would approximate to his own hitherto dreamt-up version, and thereby give cause to blacken the names of any jumped-up local Party of Labour ruffians – who’d been fool enough to invest notions of misplaced loyalty into Jezzer of the Corb-yn.
Excerpt from the NEC report…
And so with vengeful haste, these published words occasioned harm and hurt and malice upon those Wallafey-based party brethren whom, following an AGM on the twenty-fourth day of the fifth month, and a popular attempt to flex their muscles, had been clobbered around the backs of their heads and laid out, before being aroused, 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) on full public display and as part of a mighty show of strength.
This was done for the purposes of warning not just local tradespersons, customers and their livestock what fate awaits those who would stop to muse (thought crime) or even make known to their kin scandalous thoughts (slander).
But, yea, verily, to everybody in the land who might in their unwariness contemplate writing down (libel), stepping out of line (betrayal) or questioning the greatness and goodness of their betters (criminal impertinence), which should forsooth in all circumstances be heeded and treasured next to a party aco-lyte’s heart and held in the greatest of esteem.
Yea, here 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 Wallasey 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 (a very good year for the Tories), before assuming her throne.
Verily and forsooth, a lady of good standing was Angela of the Eagles, and a known and practised servant of yore, and one who would never betray Jezzer of the Corb-yn, even as she posed for publicity shots for her recently announced leadership campaign, enquiring of her PR man, “Imran, is this my good side?” whilst bedecked in garments of bright hue, pink of colour – one in particular which was a stylish number, and a vivid tunic that smited the eyes if gazed upon too long.
Even attired thus, she’d taken to prancing around before recording boxes known as cam-e-raf that sent imagef to larger and stranger boxef of difplay – known as people’s tel-e-vifionf – all carried on without shame amongst strategically positioned samples of party merchandife that put one in mind of the wretched and malodorous contents of the perfume counter owned and laid before shoppers by the good wholefaler Mr Beattie in nearby Frank of the Fields’ Beirut-next-to-the-sea.
No, in that month, Angela’s actions, including treacherous leadership bid, were carried out openly and in good faith, and with the sole purpose of enhancing what has since become her cruelly forsaken political career and her moribunded fortunes...
TO BE CONTINUED>>>>