Not So Pale Rider

Some people have the morals of zoo animals. I should know, I once put the heads of two uncouth gentlemen into a suitcase during an overnight train journey from London to Glasgow. No need to panic and believe at this point that you may well be reading the diary of a seemingly bowdlerising madman. My colloquialisms are merely running amok. I eventually let them out for air once they had finally understood that foul language and an ability to play the anal trumpet does not impress ladies in enclosed spaces. Funnily enough, they alighted well before they reached the end of their intended destination. We politely rolled down a window and bon-voyaged their luggage a few miles further on. I had no regrets then, or now, although in hindsight it was politically incorrect of me to create litter for rats to inhabit amongst the nylon robes of my fellow ex-travellers. In Glasgow, keeping rats is now encouraged just in case the need arises to cultivate a new ear upon its back should you ever walk in upon the wrong bar fight.

Turkey is where you eventually go when you have made a complete pigs ear of your life. It's full of Russians and Chechen's who look as though they are damaged extras from a Bruce Willis movie. When you have more than five of them sitting around a restaurant table it can look as though an angry child has run amok in a Mr Potato Head factory. But they have morals and codes, they also detest the work-shy detritus of today who spit, fart and play loud music in public places instead of contributing to societies needs and expectations. Their days of living amongst a fimicoloud, drenched in ambeer and wearing threadbare jackets with the pockets stuffed full of rotting turnips are over. Most of them own English football clubs, machine gun factories, or are employed as advisers to those still searching for plainly-in-sight members of the Taliban. They seek out a different kind of rat, but instead of eating them they exchange them for remuneration to create even more roorback and mayhem. The wheels turn, the rats once again peel away and hide.

I sip my tea in a small dismal cafe to the south of middle-Englandshire, my eyes hungrily devour the words informing me of the latest scandals. It is full of stories about disreputable newspaper editors who hack the iphones of murdered children while their parents sit at home awaiting the dreaded official knock on the door to inform them that their world is just about to end. Girouettism abound, they twist and bend with the wind in order to deceive and writhe back to the ultimate safety of the gutter they helped create. I shake my head in disdain as I read about firefighters who walked away from their colleagues at the scene of a huge fire in order to piss and moan about pay-rises in the comfort and safety of a bar. I hang my head as I see pictures of a retired schoolteacher beaten and raped by asylum seekers fresh in from the endless boats that continue to dock unheeded. The promised chiliasm has all but failed. Gerontocracry has definitely failed us all.

When the time finally arrives, when my services are again sought after, when it comes a time for someone other than the current adhocracy. Someone tall enough to stand and be willing and able to deal with those members of the public who continually refuse to live by the rules of decent society, I shall step forward and grasp the rusty sword of justice. A new zeitgeist has dawned. Armed with a bar code reader an indelible ink pen and my trusty sawn-off, I shall read, mark and under the new three strike rule, remove those who create an unsightly stain on society. Child molesters, muggers, those rats amongst us who continue to harm the auld and the frail, murderers, priests, TV presenters with bad haircuts as well as rapists and kiddy-fiddling disc jockeys will all fall at a single stroke of my pen. Those who have carried out a misdemeanour such as poor-parking, littering or wearing too-tight trousers past the age of thirty, will be banished to a dismal, dirty hole in the ground, surrounded by barren landscape, water-sodden trenches and inhabited only by strange animals, natives speaking in tongues, surviving on food salvaged from rotting fields of soured crops. It will be known henceforth as London. I shall be the solitary figure wearing a raincoat made entirely out of seal guts, riding upon the back of a pale horse and wielding a great scythe.

There will be no food preparation this day, instead please see photo above and then add hot water, while I seek salvation under the warmth of my hotel duvet and slink further into my seemingly endless funk.