A Political Satire.1999. Wow! If you'd seen what I've just seen! You've
got to be a philosophical contortionist
to
justify retaining the present outdated
political
system. The abolition of the hereditary
peers?
Hey! Get real! It was a firm Labour Party
election pledge wasn't it? Yeah, we all know
the electors of Britain voted overwhelmingly
for the knacker's yard gates to be flung
open for yesterday's men. But they're still
hanging on like shit to a blanket! Look for
yourself!
I bet you didn't
know
that the BBC TV camermen who cover parliament
have had the devil's own job trying
to avoid
shots of clapped out wrinklies snoring
on
the benches?
It's true - certainly after lunch,
when the member's
bellies are burgeoning with port wine
and
double-brandies, paid for by us long
suffering
taxpayers!
Relax! It is not only Britain whose
legislation
is being held up and frustrated by
a privileged
gerontocracy. The palsied hand of dotage
is to be found on the tiller of many
other
ships of state, in other areas of our
globe.
Honestly, just look at
the Senate
in the land of the freebies! I saw
a Korean
political rally on British television.
It
was fascinating to see the leading
candidate.
He was so old, so weak, he could hardly
walk
to the platform. Maybe he was just drunk? Do you think maybe
it reflects the Confucian obsession
with
advanced age?
China too seems to be
a society
hagridden by an exaggerated deference
towards
members of a gerontological cabal.
C'mon,
you must have noticed? The last years
of
Mao and Dung reminded me of the leathery
stitched-up corpse of *the mother upstairs,*
in Alfred Hitchcock’s film, Psycho. Do you remember that? Me too. It still
sends shivers up my back.
Then there was that row
of
living cadavers who lined the podium
above
Lenin's tomb during the march-past
celebrations
of the October Revolution in Red Square.
Oh my Gawd! I went there once in the
sixties. Believe me it's true. I watched the old has-beens
waving vacantly, with unsteady, claw-like
hands. I saw it with my own eyes! Their lips
dribbled, their eyes were moist - not because
of emotion - but from deteriorated tear-glands
or overtight underpants! Maybe they'd already
been stuffed like Lenin? What do you think?
Then there's President Yeltsin! Have you seen him! He's obviously in the
last stages of alcoholism. Any barkeeper
will tell you that! Another male antique
in a crumpled spirit-stained suit. A question of experience causing a person
to make new mistakes instead of old ones!
God give me strength! Hail Mary full of grace!
Then again - even in our lower chamber -
or House of Commons - one can witness scenes equally or almost
as horrific.
Some years ago a Member
of
Parliament, who shall remain nameless,
invited
me for 'lunch on the terrace'. It's
more
than my life's worth to tell you his
name.
No, honestly - I can't. He took my
friend
John Briercliffe and I to 'The Stranger's Bar.'It's located at the bottom of a rat-run
of narrow smelly corridors, not far
from
the debating-chamber. (Just in case
you're
ever invited!)
Strangers aren't supposed
to
able to buy the drinks there, so X
had to
put his hand in his pocket and 'get
the ale
in' for his two hard-drinking constituents!
There were over one hundred 'pumps'
or beer-dispensers
on the bar, which stretched for miles.
I'm
not kidding you! Each MP has the right,
by
ancient tradition, to demand that the
brand
of ale, which is brewed in his home
constituency,
is present and available for consumption
on that seven-league long counter.
What a load of
rubbish!
As the owner of a dockside club, I
was used
to witnessing every sort of human depravity
and bizarre form of activity. I've
suffered,
believe me! Being host to a whole armada
of rip-roaring foreign seamen, (in
the case
of the Americans it was merely a matter
of
watching the ashtrays didn't go missing!)
I thought I'd seen the lot. You must
be joking
- I was totally astonished by what
I witnessed
there in the 'Mother of Parliaments' on that fateful day.
You've got to believe me! Three women
members
were hanging onto the bar - crying
drunk.
On my mother's life! Their mascara
ran down
their faces in black rivulets, they
sobbed
like Stan Laurel.
Most of the MP's were totally stoned.
They
banged on the copper-topped tables
till the
glasses jiggled to the edge and fell
off.
I tried to catch them - I hate to see
waste!
John and I were dumbstruck! I saw at
least
three male poltroons whose clothing
was still
unbuttoned after visits to the gentleman's
cloakroom. What kind of a carry-on
is that?
Well, I ask you! Some sat in quiet
corners
silently hiccuping and staring into
space
- they were no doubt lonely Liberals
shunned
by all.
A Tory woman and a Labour
man
were necking passionately at the end
of the
bar. It was a scene from Hogarth. A
modern
day 'Rakes Progress.' Sheeesh! What a performance!
X soon got tired of paying for the
beers.
It was time for John and I to slip
money
to him under the table, so he could
keep
the supply coming. And him on his salary!
The staggering part was still to come!
When
the imbibition of liquor had reached
zenith
point, caution was thrown out of the
window.
As if by magic, minuscule
clusters
of senility suddenly coalesced in darkened
corners. It's absolutely true! MP's
from
opposing parties slid together like
mating
dung beetles. Small, rapidly multiplying
cultures of tainted policy-making bacteria
spread like slime in the agar jelly
of afternoon
corruption. While one of the female
MP's
slumped to the floor in a besotted
reverie
and was dragged out shoeless by her
swaying
comrades, the little clumps of politicos
started making deals.
Snatches of whispered
conversation
could be heard above the drunken singing:
"You withdraw your opposition to the
construction of the XXX Bridge and I guarantee
you an easy ride with the XXX office-block
project."
Was I dreaming? I beg your pardon!
'You owe me a favour for the XXX road
diversion,
and I'm going to call it in now.'
It went on and on.
All the time they kept their
yellow
darting eyes on the closed circuit
TV' which
were dotted about the bar, (they even
had
them in the toilets!) These screens
showed
what was going on in the chamber. Every
now
and again, someone would burp - lurch
to
his feet, check his fly buttons
and sway away to make a contribution
to the
debate.
We were ashamed I tell
you!
John was my witness to all this. Ask
him
if you don't believe me! It was a most
unforgettable
experience. It made me feel UNCLEAN!
What
a great pity that I didn't have a hidden
camera - it would have been the journalistic
success of the century!
I can see your eyes smiling!
Yes, OK, I have exaggerated a little
- I'm
a Celt, am I not? What Celt doesn't
pinch
the Saxon's bottom a wee bit? All the
same,
the pervading picture is a true one.
The bottom line you ask? You know what
I'm
going to say before I say it! Never
trust
a politician! And if you're a Saxon
- stand
with your back to the wall and watch
your
bottom! Rule Britannia! |
