Prefatory Note
This brief essay was initially submitted to the 'Notes and Comments' section of The British Journal of Political Sophistry in response to a Call for Papers on 'The Future of British Politics'. The essay was based on deep archival research into the work of the late eminent historian J. B. Morton (‘Beachcomber’) who presented his findings in his ‘By the Way’ column of the Daily Express from 1924 to 1975. The Editor of BJPS found the article not only 'not suitable for publication in the journal' but also ‘Un-British and in extremely poor taste.’ So did the Editors of twenty-three other journals. This is the twenty-sixth attempt at submission, after even the progressive daily The Cardigan rejected it.
THE TIME IS THE VERY NEAR FUTURE.
Armine Pinkbottom has just assumed office as Prime Minister of Great Britain.
He is the leader of the Liberal Conservative Labour Reform Party, the only political entity to have contested the election.
The Party was founded after the dominant factions in the British party system decided to bury their differences, having discovered that they had none to bury.
This was an implicit endorsement of the view that 'they were all cheeks of the same a***’ (George Galloway: 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, 2024, 2025, 2026, 2027a, b, c).
The merger was aided by recognition of the fact that more than two cheeks per arsum was an anatomico-political pathology.
And, after all, they were all descended from the same fine old British political tradition of liberalism, democracy and mendacity.
This meant, in practice, fawning on Donald Trump and abusing Vladimir Putin on a daily basis when not assisting with genocides in the Middle East in the cause of defending human rights.
They subscribed especially to the Zionist Lobby, for reasons of principle and money, and to the Gulf Lobby for reasons only of money.
They were particularly indebted to the Gulf Lobby because more than a half of the cabinet had obtained their undergraduate degrees from the Belgravia University of Politics and Diplomacy, a University founded and funded as an act of profitable philanthropy by a Gulf Emirati, Sheikh Shaitan el Haraam, intended specifically for scholars passing out of Narkover School (whose traditions of gambling, stealing, drinking and general sharp practice have been meticulously researched by J. B. Morton), and the only University to provide admission to school-leavers with fewer than three A-levels, this being seen as a particularly helpful qualification for a successful career as a Member of Parliament.
Armine Pinkbottom was himself a product of Belgravia University.
Pinkbottom’s tenure as England’s Prime Minister began and ended on an inauspicious note.
No sooner had he taken over as PM than there was a commotion at the door of Number 10.
Going out to investigate, he found that a large crowd of very old women had gathered, apparently led by an ancient specimen.
In his customary refined way, he asked: ‘How old is this prehistoric crone?’
The old lady said something which was incomprehensible.
She repeated herself several times, but it proved impossible to make anything of what she said for reasons, it turned out, of her not possessing any teeth and being 386,888th in the queue for dentures at the National Institute for Wellness and Exemplary Care.
A speech therapist-cum-interpreter was sent for, he being the sole survivor on the NIW’s payroll after its defunding.
Arriving on the scene of the ruckus, the speech expert interpreted the old lady to say she was 103 years old.
At that point, she raised a fist and then her voice in a loud tremolo.
‘What the hell was that?’, enquired Armine Pinkbottom.
The speech expert, looking nervously around, said the old lady had given expression to the sentiment ‘Free, free, Palestine! From the River to the Sea!’ .
The Director of the Albion Gaslighting Corporation, who was on the spot to cover the PM’s inaugural day at Number 10, immediately excised the scene, and later in the day the AGC carried a programme on Iranian censorship of news.
The Prime Minister, who had a hot line to the Prime Justice of the Premier Court, sought and received the assurance that the Court—should the need arise—would uphold the old lady’s incarceration.
The Commissioner of the Great City Police Force, present on the premises for the Prime Minister’s personal security, heroically risked his life in the line of duty by overpowering the old lady and clapping a pair of handcuffs on her wrists.
‘That,’ said the Prime Minister unctuously, ‘is for being anti-Semitic.’
The old lady had something spirited to say, which was translated by the unhappy speech therapist as: ‘She says that’s bol**cks. That it’s the Palestinians who are Semitic, not the Ashkenazis.’
The PM’s general knowledge was suspect at the best of times, which was fine as long as he was not challenged, but when he lacked an argument in a time of crisis he tended to lose it altogether.
‘Tell her I’ll have all her teeth knocked out!’ he yelled, and the AGC excised that as well and ran a programme the same night on the Iranian “regime’s” indecency toward women.
The old lady was apparently not done yet. A brief retort was translated as: ‘She says you can’t knock her teeth out.’
‘And why not?’ snarled the PM.
‘Because,’ translated the speech therapist, ‘because, she says, I don’t have any teeth, you idiot, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr Armine er--Pinkbottom.’
There was a further spurt of incomprehensible protest from the old lady, which the expert rendered as: ‘She says she didn’t say Pinkbottom.’
‘What did she say then?’ asked the PM, who should have known better than to probe the matter further.
‘She says,’ said the expert miserably, ‘she says she did not say Pinkbottom, she said Stinkbottom.’
This was too much for a man whose lifestyle habits of food, drink and—ah--entertainment were far from compatible with such a thing as equanimity.
Armine Pinkbottom expired immediately from apoplectic rage.
One of J. B. Morton’s Twelve Red-Bearded Dwarfs who had for long been biding his time popped up out of nowhere and staked his claim to the Prime Ministership.
Thus did Guttergorm Guttergormpton become the 18th Prime Minister of England between 2022 and 2027.
This is a work of satire. The author is a lapsed academic who lives and (sometimes) works in Chennai.
