Wednesday, 29 June 2011

A Satire Laced With Truth

As the Internet blogs and forums boil with acrimony, lies, accusations and some grains of truth over the goings-on in the BNP, I thought you might all like to sit back and read this amusing piece. While political, and yes, the first part at least could have happened in Leicester thus justifying it's inclusion here, I'd like everyone to smile, but also to remember why we joined the BNP, and why now, rather than throw personal insults at all and sundry in the Party and distort facts, we can recover that sense of unity, our shared British sense of humour, and our determination that, even though we are going through a rough patch at the moment, we are Nationalists. We have the same goals and would be silly to let ourselves be fatally divided.

This article is by Albion, and I send him my appreciation for his allowing me to reproduce it here.

Praying for a Saif Return

It was at the age of thirty five Destinee Gubbins from the Cockcroft estate met the tall, curly haired stranger, a dusky gentleman from Coconut Island, a palm fringed atoll just south of Trinidad and Tobago. This fatal chance happening occurred after the inaugural meeting of the Cockcroft Estate Friends of Multi-Culturism Society (CEFOMS) held at the Stephen Lawrence Cockcroft Estate Community Cohesion Centre (SLCECCC) where she reluctantly admitted she foolishly and impetuously first surrendered her reputation and sullied her unblemished record of celibacy under the cover of darkness behind the ‘Black Swan’ to the said ebon stranger in exchange for a few brief moments of carnal pleasure only to find a couple of months later to her horror she was carrying something other than a worrying bank card debt.

My mother always used to say ‘Stress Kills’ and so it was with my father who smoked roll-your-owns from his early teens until his untimely death, hastened I might add by my mother feeding him a diet exceedingly rich in animal fats. Incidentally he died prematurely under stress at age 97. ….well actually 97 1/2. Talking of stress Destinee’s mother Valerie-Ann had stressed continually and forcefully to her daughter if you cannot see the whites of their eyes turn on the lights.

Unfortunately for Destinee she did not heed her mother’s parental warning. There were no lights alit behind the ‘Black Swan’ that evening.

This was the first page of a radio script I submitted to the BBC radio drama department for evaluation. Miss Begum Khalida Zaman replied my script would be discussed at the next radio drama meeting.

…that was over two years ago. I pondered whether or not it was the case that the main character of my script Destinee was neither an illegal Iraqi immigrant a feminist nor a Lesbian. Who knows! Be that as it may I am kept busy at present writing 6 historical novels. My most recent script a drama written for TV tells the story of a BBC executive, Benjamin Coeur de Lion Courtney a past student of the London School of Economics. In my story he was a great friend of Saif al-Islam, a son of Gaddifi.

You may remember it was while at the London School of Economics Saif was maliciously and scurrilously accused of plagiarism after submitting his thesis entitled “The Mathematical calculations of String theory and its algebraic equations with the Principles of Dark Matter and Multiple universes”. This magnificent piece of scientific research was submitted immediately after Saif had completed an accredited course of Period Furniture Restoration in Whitechapel.

The story goes it was at the London School of Economics they first met while Saif was studying for a Masters degree in ‘Democracy for Dummies’ and young Benjamin was studying the basic principles of Marxism. A small stipend received as a result of a fellowship at Oxford College had enabled Benjamin to rent cheap rooms above the Student Union branch of ‘The Friends of Venezuela’ in Duke Street. As a matter of interest it was Benjamin’s 20 page booklet ‘Trotting with Trotsky” that sold over 11 copies on its first day of publication that launched his career with the BBC and as they say, the rest is history.

Benjamin had a meteoric rise throughout the departments of the National Broadcaster quickly attaining his executive position and remained a close chum of Saif’s until his recent sudden disappearance. Previously questions regarding Benjamin’s gender preferences surfaced with libellous personal accusations on Face-book. This rumour was possibly triggered when he was sighted buying a red dress a hat and matching red shoes from a small exclusive boutique in Knightsbridge but was later confirmed he was paying for and collecting said items for his sister and the insinuation that he bought them for himself was quashed.

Nevertheless the troublesome rumours still persisted. Saif meanwhile was successful in his application for political asylum and disappeared from the scene.

Benjamin’s disappearance took the Police and Lady Policeman's important investigative time away from concentrating on critical social problems like hate crimes, suspicion of hate crimes, crimes that may or may not be construed as hate crimes and crimes that could possibly be perceived as crimes of hate but not necessarily so, but more importantly race crimes, suspicion of race crimes, crimes that can be perceived as race crimes and thought crimes that threatened social cohesiveness, frivolous accusations of a thought crime, and….…er, you get the general idea.

There is a mysterious conclusion to this story. A British Sunday Ragloid published an exclusive story that both of them had been sighted at the Simôn Bolivar Areopuerto Internacional in Caracas, Venezuela disembarking from a Condor Airlines Boeing 737-200.

This was a deliberately fabricated story for the consumption of their Sunday readers and a sensationalist story one might expect from the British gutter press.

As an epilogue the only other passengers to arrive that day, who disembarked at the far end of the airport from a Gulfstream G550 executive jet was a man of a Middle Eastern appearance and a lady wearing a bright red dress, hat and matching red shoes.

That is a short précis of my latest novel which I have been instructed to send to the head of BBC’s TV English drama department for the attention of a Ms. Madushami Samarasinghe.

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