Monday, August 22, 2016


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:

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.