Heads: you lose
It’s got a bit light in the evenings now, and the vomming young roustabouts have returned to spoil the stalker’s peace of London’s night-time streets, but back in early summer was a good time to enjoy the Thames bridges, lit up (like concert halls and everything else these days) in pastel shades like a Belarusian bordello, possibly in the agreeable and accommodating town of Slutsk.
After immersion in Alice, one mulls over how vastly improved the picture would be by the restitution of an old tradition, curated by said Queen of Hearts, with a row of spikes erected along London Bridge (cerise and pistachio) for the heads of traitors. An entertaining party
game — an extension of the above — can be had deciding who gets a place; for a start, obviously, every prime minister since Phony Baloney (though should we spare poor Mrs May? — perhaps she suffered enough) plus the odd chancellor — yeah, that one who flogged Stonehenge and everything else to the Chinese, and the other guy who pissed our gold reserves away for a sixth of their value. Plus a little teeny one made of something bendy and recyclable for Cleggy so he could wave around in the wind.
Bonfire season dawns in the blessed six counties, and the pipes and pipe-bombs are calling … Actually there is one excellent benefit to life in the Occupied North-East of Ulster in July, on top of the fact that everyone else gets the hell out.
Persistent rumour maintains that the local councils have banned garden bonfires — and really, nothing would be a surprise here where the entirety of politics is devoted to thwarting the other gang, resulting in a competitive wowserdom whereby the Shinner and Dupper thugs, gangsters and halfwits who have by some devilish visitation come to represent this mild and harmless populace vie to outdo each other in their touching concern for public health & safety.
Anyway, obviously nobody’s going to stop you having a bonfire wherever the hell you want in July, but what to do at other times of year? A friendly local farmer suggests the following solution: keep a “Pope” dummy handy to bung on top if the peelers come by, and claim you’re celebrating your legally enshrined cultural traditions. Other side? Nothing could be simpler. Swap the auld mitre for a wee tricorn, and King Billy’s yer uncle, so he is. Parity of esteem, that’s what we preach.
People are being rather rude about puir wee Pootsy and that arcane belief system of his. But why? — this is a place where everyone is devoted