Alistair Darling and the Plague of Charlatans

As yet more Pubs go under, can the tide be turned? Have we seen the last of the Great British Boozer?

Monday 11th May 2009

...And lo, I walk alone amongst the bastards and the heathens; those sticky-fingered nondescripts of taking without asking; full of booze and emptiness and loathing now, of everything, slithering through sullen streets and boarded-window whitewash; newspapers, like ashes, flutter down the waste disposal (this jugular that pumps the bilge in bubble-boxes shining, to almost-certain death-trap jobs to keep the wretches floating).

The headlines scream of thievery and fetid little scandals; secrets stashed in office-desks beneath a swollen budget; another suit, a different tie, but still no sign of backbone; the pilgrims and the governors, each one of them a liar.

…And at their head, the Chancellor, the child-snatcher Darling, that baby-faced destructor who has stolen all of England; who heard the warnings clear through all the mists of foggy politics, and heard the cries of “Axe the Tax!” that echoed from the rooftops; he, alone, continued with his path of petty meddling; and stands in robes of Government to see the boozers closing.

The death toll, now, is rising, and, with every day that passes, another pub lies bleeding from the neck in mucky murder.
This dirty stain lies on his hands, and still, he skips a-roaming, briefcase full of contraband and other people’s money; dancing like a pimp between his friends and loyal colleagues, and each of them, a hypocrite, and worthy of dissection – lash them to the mast, and beat their genitals with chains - they are The Beast, they are the filthy, and for this they must be burned.

…And yet, in spite of everything, the lowly man will suffer, and in this Plague of Charlatans, ‘tis I that will be demonized.

For Drunk, am I, and evil, so commit me to destruction; spare not a thought to why, and how it may be my decision. Countenance my sacrifice with Psalms of my potential, then write me off as dangerous and process me in secret; crush the pubs as palaces of Swinerous Enjoyment, and in their place, build basilisks and churches to the Joyless.

…And I shall go unto my grave without a word in anger, but with a deep and tranquil peace from knowledge of the highest – that I, no longer, walk amongst the bastards and the heathens; those sticky-fingered nondescripts of taking without asking.