“But it was a treaty, not a constit-“
“No, no, Hazel, the time has passed for all that, long passed.” I reply, “Come this way, we still have Jenny, Boris and Des to visit, they are in the other enclosure, along with the honorary boar – Snowball, a two tonne gargantuan. You Napoleons are going to be the special guests of the feast.”
They are lead onwards, single file, towards the second enclosure. Blair leads, followed by Brown, Blears, Miliband, Balls, Smith, Harman,
“Hazel, you will be first. Not today, but at the end of the week. We, the people, wanted dearly for you all to spend at least a few days thinking about your demise and to help you visualise that moment we brought you here, to the enclosure. We wanted to show you the pigs in advance. Come Friday, it’ll be feeding time. It was the only punishment we thought suitable for the crimes of you honourable members.”
Mandy breaks down, he falls to his knees and wails. Whimpering breaks out along the line. Purnell vomits. Blears maintains her robotic grin throughout, the only sign of inner fright is a twitching, restless hand.
Taken back to their cells, they each sit in solitude for their final days, constantly plagued by images of Bessie and Timmy pottering about the enclosure. Only a month prior they had been forcibly dragged from
That’s the current dream, it’s not quite Martin Luther-King yet but it’s a work in progress.
I cant help but think that one of the major problems with British politics is that the pigs have never been unveiled. Or rather, parliament gave the monarchy a tour of the farmyard in the 17th century, but the people have never extended the same courtesy to our parliamentarians, we have neglected their needs and so in turn they neglect ours.
As i listen to Brown's snivelling proposals for "radical reform", or see smarmy Dave giving a heartfelt monologue on the beauty of the FPTP system, i just cant stop thinking about the pigs...
Next time you read some offensive guff from any of our esteemed representatives you too can calm yourself by going to your "happy place", be it having the honour of personally leading the pig parade, or, as Annetan suggested, burying them alive in a rubbish dump.
For therapy of a different kind, you can read "The triumph of the political class", by Peter Oborne. He apparently writes for the Mail but dont hold that against him. In fact do, but read the book anyway. I was so frothing with primal contempt for New Labour that i was certain i could never again hate anything as much as i hated those ministers, but with the help of Oborne's book i am finding a whole new world of disdain and loathing. If you want to plumb new depths of despair, if you want to find the limits of your disgust, you can do it all with Oborne's help.