Thursday, June 16, 2016

                       T'WAS  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  BREXIT  


Turbo the Toll Way Way Right Troll
had a very, very big  coal  snogger,
the  very, very, biggest even a well subsidized Northern Rock director could command.

The merry old coal snogger had spent   years  since  being  built rumbling  through  the estate,  puffing  hot air  at the village school pupils and staff. Sometimes he could even see them failing copies of The Telegraph about to wave the coal dust away, but a lot of the time he did not care- Tyneside trolls & tin men can be deaf as TV weathermen & dumb as teletubbies with wind turbine lobotomies.

Turbo was huge as Northern Rock, and being too big to fail, he could be seen for miles and miles. Much further than the land owner,  Earl Wayright, a filthy rich coal mining baron, had said you would be able to shoot over if you didn't mind bagging birds that tasted of creosote.

His friendly estate agent,  Watermelon Scam Sam The Malvern Water Man, who doubled as Master of Slaghounds for the Delingpole Quorn, had  even  shown  worried Turboville tenants  what  would  happen  to taxes  without  the  waybill  takings,  but  all  the  tiny print in green ink made it  hard for his  hedge fund  advisor, the  Performing  Artiste  Formerly Known As The Rocket Scientist to explain to Tess of the Turbovillers. 

But today Turbo was furious. Several of his thermal plant contracts had blown off, and coal nobody wanted was piled by the lorry,  train, and ship-load,  all over the school playground.

It  was  so  windy. Perhaps  even  a Force 9  gale, so  Turbo's snoggle toggle was spinning in the wind as he waited for the National Grid to declare him an earth art excavator before he disintegrated,  so he could claim the extravagant constraint payments on the grass growing in the wayright   that  went  to  his  friend, Northumberlandia,  the Earth  Art Goddess ( bouncy  castle  admission  free  with  season  ticket ). But alas,  Earl  Gumby  and  his  chaplain  Bishop Soapy  had  misjudged running  costs, and now hung turning in the wind, with pockets inside- out, and  directorships  missing,  and a  redundant cartoonist  in tow furiously sketching Turbo's bucket wheel as it came off its bearings ! 

It was a good job it wasn’t break time when the children would have been outside playing. With no enforced safety zone around this huge piece of industrial machinery and its whirling blades, it was very dangerous to be anywhere near him.

But no-one was telling the children that. Bishop Soapy was their friend and would help save the Estate School. The nice chancellor man who owned Watermelon Unrenewables LLC Jersey, Lord Weasel, had told them that. He had come to the school with a jolly shirtmaker, to teach the children  Ukipmanship, and all about how he would save their mining jobs right after he saved the UK from the EU, and the EU from the Syrian UNEP Vikings led by Erik the Red on the Inside, Green on the Outside, and how he had only frightened them all into thinking that, without him, they were all doomed to die because he needed the money.

It was scary stuff.  It gave them nightmares.  Watching climate cranks scare sensible voters away from Brexit by spewing infantile nonsense was very, very scary indeed.