Although Bishop Hill has gone missing, his understudy has aimed a book at a demographic of a certain mental age warning post-Brexit teletubbies of the evils of wind power. The following edition is very slightly shorter than the original:
PERCY
THE PINWHEEL
The
sun seldom smiled on Grimbledon Glulch and the people were always gloomy.
It
was a dour place to live until something happened that made the people very
barmy.
This
is the tale of Percy the Pinwheel who always wore a propeller beanie, and lived on a pretty little Grimbledon farm high above the gulch Mr Barley rented from the rich
landowner, Lord Law Law.
Despite the drone of his propeller beanie, no-one could get
out of earshot of Percy. The promising lad sat on the roof of his cowshed atop Northern Rock for many years with
a bull horn whose subsidized computer
feed from the GWPF Trust London office was hushed up by the big downstairs PR firms at Grimbledon House in W1.
Hardly
anyone knew the Counter-Spin B-team were there except when they brayed around Lord Law Law’s
breakfast table upstairs, for they were mostly his inlaws.
His
lordship farmed them out in the winter to give batteries of speeches to warm up
his colonial coal mining pals, or write leaders for the papers that provided dry
fodder for his highland cows in the cold dark months. Percy could just about do
that, but nawt else, and spent summers sunbathing at G 20 and Heartland conferences
in Doha and Vegas, and watching the wildlife all around him.
Lord
Law Law's son, Alaric the Editor, was Percy’s friend, and would often go
and wak and talk and hunt and shoot with Percy. Alaric didn’t have many friends, but Percy was always there
to listen when he had problems at his magazine, like getting fired.
One
day a wind developer called Mr McWeasel went to see Lord Law Law.
He
said he was cutting back on PR, because Lord Law Law’s friends already had
more income from wind turbines on their land than leasing the shooting,
and Brexit was a done deal, he could lay off more of the daft buggers he’s been
paying to raise hob about renewable energy, since the Dark Greens were dying
off anyway, and everyone south of Sutherland could see there was more brass in
frakked gas than bigger wind turbines.
The
only place on earth still funding such falderal said Mr McWeasel was
Australia, where mad cow coalies would even
pay to propagandize five year old children.
Mr
McWeasel said if he could have permission, he’d get Percy sent to Aldershot to
train as a tank driver in Lord Law Law’s
next Persian Oil war, so he could
come home and drive one of the big wayright machines that ripped up all the ground and cut
down all the trees in Grimbledon Gulch Forest and poured big lorry loads of
concrete all over the land for frakking
pads.
Then
when the wild animals ran away and the river turned a dirty brown colour and the
birds stopped singing, and the sun stopped shining and dark clouds spread
across the sky, it would be time for the Boxing Day shoot, for global warming could only improve the weather on the Northumberland Riviera.
Mr
Mc Weasel said Mr. Barley would be invited, for he was the hottest shot in the shire, as he trained all year by
blowing the blades off Trasher, the tiny turbine atop his cowshed, as he’d read
in The Spectator that he had a duty to
stop the evil bat-bashing machine from whacking the wings off of snipe flying by.
Percy agreed that saving the snipe was a very green thing
to do, and said that as soon as he was commissioned in the hats, he would
write to The Daily Telegraph proposing
Mr Barley for a gong in the New Year’s honors list. Lord Law Law wrote him a very small cheque and told him to push off. The end.
