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Taking
pot shots at small fry
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By
George Rumsbottom
By
Gad Sir! If you lot aren't a gang of blighted barbarians. I
remember a bunch of you darkies whispering feverishly the other
day as I walked quickly through the east end of London. Something
about petri dishes, viruses and labs I recall. No that's not it.
Culture. Yes that's right. The two words that come to mind from
that overheard conversation are culture and civilisation. Ah yes.
I remember now. Some rot about two thousand years of culture. Or
was it two thousand and three? These approximations mean nothing
to me. |
Ichabod
and what a culture it is! A culture of human viruses more like. In the
nineteen thirties you had the highest homicide rate in the known world.
In the nineteen nineties without a thought for your collective sanity,
you glibly switched to having the highest suicide rate. If ever there
have been a moment in time a sensitive aristocratic Englishman witnessed
a sad gaggle of mutant geese, then this moment in time is that moment in
time.
To
top it all you have now started taking pot shots at strange minor
politicians with the easy intimacy of a well loved acquaintance. By
George! Have you chaps no sense of finer feeling? No decorum? No respect
for the rules of the blood sports? Reminds one of the worst excesses of
the French revolution.
And
only last week, having already hunted down with your bows and arrows
some chap called Chandi Malli, a pack of thieves, no doubt with a savage
sap running in their blighted veins, subjected some unfortunate poop to
a soul testing experience. Calling him out and killing him as man to man
is one thing. Luring him out into the open with a piece of rotten fish
is quite another.
An
infernal outrage against the public weal. But then again, when the
public consists of barbaric natives, what can one expect?
And
to be killed by mock supporters too. That is what I call the last straw.
And talking of mocking, I was deeply interested in the filibustering
that went on in your legislative chambers late last week. Falling in
with the mob spirit, even your leader of the opposition had made a
horrible cackling sound like a turkey with laryngitis. I am now told by
my investigative staff that he was merely weeping.
Mock
funerals forsooth. You have been holding mock parliaments for decades.
The Westminster system is lost on you barbarians. What you need is a
white man cracking a whip on your back.
And
as for attire, with the single exception of one Mangala Samaraweera who
always looks debonair in a pink scarf, the other members are hardly what
one would call, cat walk material. And by the whiskers of Saddam! If you
think that smuggling in a tiny coffin into the hallowed chambers is
going to bring down the house when you natives have been smuggling in
bally thieves for decades..you can think again.
And
what harm can an empty coffin do? Really. I ask you. You chaps have been
delivering empty speeches for years. Has it had an effect? No. And as
for the sack cloth and ashes and the weeping and wailing in the well of
the house. Encore. Encore. The emanating sound is far superior to
anything that comes out from the large red lips of your vituperative
President.
But
nothing lasts forever you know. My informant informs me that the
mourners soon stopped mourning when their stomachs started groaning. At
which time they sidled off to the canteen for a five rupee buffet lunch.
More
strength to the larynges of these filibustering hyenas is my fervent
prayer. I tell a lie. I couldn't care a rat's patoot for you natives
really. I am not what one could call an amicus humani generis. The very
fact that I and my kind exist is tidings of great joy to all. If my kind
and I actually tried to be nice, now that, would be too much of a good
thing. Or as our neighbours across the channel would say, 'tou jours
perdrix.'
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