HUSH PUPPY STREET JUSTICE – Why There’s a Revolution Coming and How You Can Be Part Of It If You Wear the Right Trousers
Men, if you’ve just turned forty, congratulations and welcome to the over forties club. This month’s password is “Brassicas”. If you haven’t reached the magic Four-Oh yet, then perhaps you should back away and do something else. If you’re in your twenties then maybe you could book yourself in for a manicure or a back sack and crack wax. Keep on doing that until words like “brassicas” and “dignity” enter your everyday vocabulary.
If you’re a teenager, go away and try to figure out what might constitute a funny statement before you tag “LOL” on the end of it. The amount of times “LOL” is typed online suggests to me that being in your teens nowadays is a great deal more amusing than I remember it being. Strange really, given the vastly increased number of Goths in the world. Or Emos if you prefer to call them that to soften the blow a bit.
If you are thirtysomething and you knew what a brassica was without having to Google it then you can join in. But sit quietly at the back and don’t tell your mum.
Now, perhaps I was a bit harsh on the youngsters there, but the plan won’t work if they’re listening in. There’s mistrust and misunderstanding between the young and the old and we need to sort it out. We’re all human beings, and society can’t flourish if there’s a breakdown in communication. We need to meet and communicate our feelings in an open and honest forum.
But how best to get the old and the young together to express themselves without holding back? And how to avoid the inevitable generational language barrier from getting in the way? The answer to these questions can be given in just one word. Gangfights. A broken bottle and set of brass knuckles can paint your opinions in a way that a thousand words can barely start. That’s what society really needs; us and them, outside, on the cobbles having a strainer to sort it all out.
Now I know what you’re thinking. They have youth on their side, which of course they have. A lot of them are as hard as nails, you say, which is true. But most of them aren’t, and that is why they roam around in packs attacking pensioners and vagrants. Most of them have never actually been in a fight, they’ve only beaten people up as a group, which isn’t the same thing.
You see, there’s more of us and, let’s not be coy, we can afford better weapons and faster getaway cars. Also, there’s the element of surprise. The last thing they’ll expect is to be ambushed by a group of respectable accountants and quantity surveyors wearing hush puppies and sports coats. Men who wanted to be astronauts and secret agents and know that now they never will be. Men who are bloody angry about that fact and really want to take it out on someone’s hide. Like Fight Club, but without the abs.
So, grab a baseball bat and flex those saggy man boobs. Get your missus to sew another waist panel in your old Chuck Norris Action Jeans. It’s time we did a bit of happy slapping. We won’t film it on our mobile phones, of course. No, we’ll hire professional film making equipment and make beautifully crafted documentaries because, hey, we happen to like documentaries. Maybe get Attenborough to do the voice over, I’m sure he’d be game.
“And here we have….the Greater Spotted Hoodie….blissfully unaware of the pack of Salt and Pepper haired predators ..about…to pounce.”. We’ll probably be up for a BAFTA.
Once we’ve sorted the young ‘uns out and got the governments attention, it’s time to lay siege to London. There’s not been a revolution in this country since 1381, so it’s high time we had another. Oh, there’s been marches of course but you can’t count them. Especially not the Jarrow Crusade. All they came back with was empty bellies and really big blisters. That’s because all they were armed with was flat caps and impenetrable accents. Seriously, I was brought up ten miles away from Jarrow and I can’t understand a word any one of them says. The Prime Minister at the time must have thought the Jarrow Crusade was a bunch of irate Germans come to complain about the punitive war reparations.
We’ll troop to Whitehall under a flag of protest. Hey, we’ll protest about the sudden spate of unprovoked attacks against young chavs and hoodies. By us! Middle class self loathing. They’ll buy that in a heartbeat. And we’ll succeed where the others failed because we won’t be armed with flat caps. We’ll be armed with truth and righteous indignation. And assault rifles. I can get a really good price off Big Yuri down the Rotary Club. All I have to do is keep writing bogus academic references for all those nieces he keeps bringing in from the old country. God that man’s got a lot of nieces. All nineteen years old too, and pretty as pictures. Which is odd, because Yuri’s got a face like Boris Karloff’s scrotum. Still, you can never tell with family, can you?
Let the authorities quake at the deceptively soft thud of battalions of comfortable shoes on the march. Let them tremble at the roar that is the collective rustling of 10,000 pairs of smart but casual trousers cut from a tasteful camel material. And let them rush off to guard the people in power, because that’s not who we’ll be attacking. Cameron and Clegg andOsbourne will be safe. For the moment. We are old after all, so it’s old scores that need to be settled first.
Maybe wait until there’s riots or something going on for added cover. We did think of using The Olympics, but that would have meant disrupting the Women’s Gymnastics, and no middle aged man worth his salt wants to miss the opportunity of having that on his TIVO box.
First stop is the BBC, to raid their well stocked liquor cabinets. We’ve paid for it all anyway, so we might as well start with a bar where we’ve well and truly got a few in. Then find Ken Livingstone and make him give us a fiver each for the privilege of just being at his workplace. I fail to see any inherent socialism in that arrangement. Ten thousand of us, so that should wipe that self satisfied grin off his face; the hypocritical little town hall gnome. Yes, I know he’s not Mayor any more, but it was his idea, so let’s get him anyway. And if anyone fancies giving Boris Johnson a bit of a kicking, I’m sure it can’t do any harm.
Also we find Tony and Cherie, wherever they live now, and we sit them down. Then we make them drink red wine with fish. Cold red wine with fish. Though not a fruity Beaujolais, of course, which is rather nice chilled and goes remarkably well with some of your meatier varieties of seafood. Then we burn them at the stake with a bonfire of cigarettes and labour party manifestos from the last general election they won. Don’t worry about the cigarettes, it’ll all be happening outdoors, and will therefore be perfectly legal. Apart from the murder, of course.
Then we find former Prime Minister Gordon Brown and we explain to him, with extreme prejudice, what the word “Budget” means. Now as far as I’m aware it means something like “To take the available money and use it as prudently and frugally as possible” or “Any written plan which facilitates the aforementioned goal” It doesn’t mean “Tax everyone until their tits squeak then throw the loot around like a drunken sailor on two days shore leave in a Bangkok brothel”.
Mind you, the word “Budget” and the phrase “Bodge It” sound exactly the same coming out of Gordon’s mouth so maybe he wasn’t being as disingenuous as it seemed. Not sure what Badger Lamont’s excuse was
There are some who would say that likening Gordon Brown to a drunken sailor is an unfair comparison, and I put my hands up now and agree that they’re right. A drunken sailor isn’t arrogant enough to expect his paymasters – and that’s what we were – to pay him over and over again for the same thing. He doesn’t roll back onto his ship and demand that the Purser to give him several times the amount he paid his chosen prostitutes in the first place once the girls have spent it all on shoes, make up and cocaine. By prostitutes, of course, I mean Banking Executives. And by shoes, make up and cocaine I mean sub prime mortgages and toxic loans. And cocaine. Or perhaps I was actually being literal. After all, with the size of the bonuses these fellas award themselves, they can afford to indulge pretty much whatever peccadilloes they fancy. In short, inebriated sailors on questionable shore leave have a better developed sense of shame and personal accountability than our Gordon Brown.
No, actually forget that plan. That concept will never sink in, no matter how many times we plug his rectum into the National Grid. Let’s just burn him as well, or bludgeon him to death with that red briefcase. We’re all middle class now, eh Gordon? Smashing. That more than makes up for ten years of having our financial ballsacks twisted until our eyes pop out on stalks.
So that’s the plan. Will you be there come the glorious day? Of course you will. So will I. Marching at the front, I’ll spearhead the whole thing. I’ll lead you to victory.
Provided I can get a babysitter, obviously
© Copyright Michael Grimes 2013