Holding up the mirror

(LONDON, 1751, about tea-time...)

"'Ere, are you Mr 'Ogarth?"

"Yes, I am. What can I do for you?"

"'S about that picture you got in your window."

"Ah yes, 'Gin Lane'. A satirical portrayal of modern society. I'm rather proud of it, actually; in fact, I'm planning to make a print of it to sell."

"It'll 'ave to go, squire."

"What?"

"It's a bad influence, see? All that drunkenness and so on; it's offensive, like. The Beadle's on 'is way and 'e wants you to get rid of it; it's all part of 'is new plans for a sober October. Burning's best - it'd go up lovely on the fire!"

"You can't do that - it's a work of art!"

"Don't matter, squire; can't have a picture like that where people might see it and get the idea they wants a strong drink."

"But... but... the whole thing is meant to show the evils of drinking cheap spirits instead of good honest beer. It's satire!"

"Couldn't say anything to that, squire; Beadle's against beer too, he is. In fact, 'e's dead set against all that sort of thing. Now 'and it over before 'e gets 'ere and we'll be on our way. I'm sure you don't want any trouble now. After all, it's 'ardly as if it's a loss to future generations, is it?"


(Inspired, of course, by recent events in Clacton.)

Flooding - an exclusive report

'I'm speaking to you from the tiny rural village of Upton-in-the-Marsh, which has been completely cut off by floodwater for the past week. Until I arrived this morning, the inhabitants had had no contact with the outside world for seven days.'

'Er...'

'For the past week, the local residents have been gazing out at the floodwater and waiting for help to arrive.'

'Excuse me, but...'

'When I got here, I was embraced by weeping villagers, overcome with joy that someone had at last recognized their plight and come to their aid.'

'Now look here...!'

'They are down the the last reserves in their store cupboards; no food or medical supplies have come in since the deluge began.'

'Rubbish! Mike and Amy here have have been running errands to the next village in their kayaks...'

'I paddled my canoe through ten-foot-deep water along flooded lanes where no-one has ventured for at least a week.'

'...and  Bill's been bringing in milk on his tractor every morning.'

'It was heartwarming to see the residents' obvious emotion as they welcomed the first new face for days.'

'You mean, apart from the BBC camera crew over there? And ITV news last Friday, and those blokes in the dinghy from the local police?'

'This is a community in crisis facing an unprecedented challenge.'

'Oh, for goodness' sake! This area has been flooding on a regular basis since before the Domesday Book; that's why the village is built on a hilltop.'

'I'm only glad I could bring these unfortunate people some small comfort by being the first to bring their desperate situation to the world's notice.

'I... just.....aaargh!'

'As you see, their gratitude has left them at a loss for words.'

Inspired, perhaps unsurprisingly, by The Mail.

On Her Majesty's Cheapest Service

Something a little more light-hearted this evening, with apologies to Ian Fleming...

Cash-strapped MoD sells off its spies’ luxury watches – and thousands of other items – to plug £36bn ‘black hole’ Daily Mail

James Bond sipped his drink and looked at his wristwatch again. The digital dispay read 10:25. He got to his feet, pushing aside the polystyrene box that held the last few crumbs of his Big Mac. Carrying his large 7-Up, he went to the door of the restaurant and looked out.

It was still raining. His imitation Converse would be soaked through long before he reached the Premier Inn where he had left his Timpson suitcase. If only M would let him take a minicab on expenses.

Turning up the collar of his Burton jacket, Bond stepped out into the street and walked the ten yards to the Silver Dollar Amusement Arcade. Two girls in the doorway made way for him to pass; a hint of Burberry Touch lingered in the air where they had been standing.

Bond selected a slot machine and started to feed in 50p coins. He was gambling with his own money now; M had been very firm about allowances. One of the girls from the door had followed him and now stood beside the machine, watching him. He looked up and caught her eye.

"Gum?" she said, offering a packet of Wrigleys Extra.
"Don't mind if I do." Bond took a piece. "What's your name?"
She leaned closer to him and giggled, her Elizabeth Duke earrings chiming in sympathy. Her breath was warm on his neck and smelt of Bacardi Breezers.
"It's Lauren, but my friends call me Chardonnay," she said.
"Chardonnay? I like it. Smooth, and with a touch of oak. Tell me, Chardonnay, where would you like to wake up tomorrow morning?"

The girl looked up at him from under eyelashes heavy with Rimmel Volume mascara.
"Dunno, really," she said, "'S long as I get to school in time. I've got Food Tech first thing and it's the only GCSE I'm goin' to get, innit."

"B***er!" said Bond. Turning on his heel, he walked outside onto the pavement and lit a Lambert & Butler.

Since the Ministry cuts, the job just wasn't the same, somehow.

Update: After I had written this, the Urchin drew my attention to this take on a similar theme...

Ernest Rutherford Seagull - a Cautionary Tale

A piece of fiction today, with sincere apologies to Richard Bach.

Staff at Sellafield are considering a cull of seagulls as the site is overrun with birds, cats and mice, representing a substantial risk of contamination. Meanwhile, natural wildlife deaths on site mean they have 350 little frozen carcasses in storage as 'putrescent' nuclear waste pending proper disposal.

Ernest Rutherford Seagull hovered in the updraught from the cooling tower, watching mice scurry over the brickwork. The faint glow from his extended wingtips was matched by the eerie luminescence of the waste water lagoons where his friends were swimming.

He knew there was something different about the mice – something new about the way they gathered in small groups, then moved on decisively. Things were changing around Sellafield. Certainly the cats he had seen looked thinner, more desperate. Some of them were even hungry enough to tackle a seagull.

His friend Robert Oppenheimer Seagull manoeuvred into position beside him. Ernest Rutherford Seagull pointed downwards with his beak. “Do you see anything different about them?” he asked.

“So you’ve noticed too.” Robert Oppenheimer Seagull didn’t sound surprised. “I think they’re evolving intelligence. They’ve already learned to evade the cats.”

“Poor little things,” said Ernest Rutherford Seagull. “They probably wish they could fly.”

At that moment there was a loud bang and Robert Oppenheimer Seagull crumpled into a ball, plummeting downwards towards the ground and landing in an untidy heap. A man in a biohazard suit picked him up with tongs and placed him carefully in a freezer bag.

Behind the man the grass stirred, although there was no wind. There was a glimpse of fur, the twitch of a tail, a slight hissing sound. The mutant feral cats were gathering. And they were hungry.

Ernest Rutherford Seagull wheeled on the updraught and flew sadly away towards Whitehaven, his wings still glowing faintly.