Now please don’t go straight ahead and leap to all the wrong conclusions. Whatever you do, you most certainly shouldn’t immediately swing into the saddle of your high horse (terribly well bred and beautifully flowingly maned as he might be). Before we continue headfirst into whatever’s presently going down, do allow me to assure you in a suitably fulsome fashion that the babies in this particular situation are strictly and definitely hypothetical. The only babies who should ever be even a very little bit torn apart are the variety made out of jelly and coated in powdered sugar. Glad to know that we’re all on the same page, it’s all kinds of refreshing.
Alright then, so what happens to be the beef that certain folk out there have with miniature humans with more than the standard number of parents? You would think that they’d be thrilled that people are coming into the world with a higher than average chance of always having someone around for them. That doesn’t even vaguely resemble what’s going on with the world today? How do you know more about it than I do? The title may well be based on scraps from real headlines from today but I am completely making it up on the spot so are you inside my head that you have this information before I’ve decided what it is?
The real answer is that people have seriously scary and deeply rooted problems with change. Any new ideas will shake the shifting sands that they base their lives upon and they don’t have the strength of character to deal with it in a remotely mature way. So they lash out and protest that they don’t like what’s going on in the world. They decide for some random and entirely arbitrary reason that they’re against the hot button topic of the day and they’ll rail against it with everything they’ve got. Like babies with mitochondria from one woman inserted into the egg of another. Because anti-science.
They really are a surprisingly incredibly superstitious bunch, the Tories. With their high priest the deeply magical Davido of Cameroon at the helm, they’ve learned terror of the unknown like never before. And now they’ve got wind of poor helpless animals being slaughtered for thoroughly godly reasons and they’ve got serious willies (that came out completely wrong and yet you know precisely what I mean. They are more than afraid and nothing any of us can say will divert them from their current path of shaking in their not particularly stylish boots). You would think that they’d feel unsettled because it’s something different.
Oh no my friends, it’s much worse than that. The Tories know in their hearts and minds that putting animals to death in order to appease various deities totally freaking works. They’ve done it before and it’s how they almost but not quite won the last election and it’s pretty much all they’ve got on their side as the next one swans into frame with increasing urgency. They’re worried that the Lib Dems or UKIP or, heaven forfend that their worst nightmare would be realised, Labour have found them out and are knifing more impressive livestock so that they get all of the attention from on high.
So what can they do to avert the oncoming storm, the rising apocalypse, the shaky defeat and dethroning that’s threatening to swallow them whole? Probably next to nothing. It’s a shame they can’t be entirely bothered to get off their robe swathed arses in order to do some old fashioned campaigning in order to reassure the general public that they’re not intensely weird and have gone supremely off the rails in a terribly horrific way. I almost feel like I could begin to psyche myself up to feeling mildly sorry for them or at the very least as if I wouldn’t shudder if one of them tried to touch me.
It’s perfectly straightforward, don’t you agree? Grey is such a depressed and uninspiring not quite colour. It should be used as sparingly as possible and slightly less than that if it can be helped at all. It’s not exactly surprising that brand new rules have been put in place saying that when interior decorating plans are being devised for hospital buildings, grey is not to feature whatsoever. That’s not to say it will all become head spinningly vibrant from floor to ceiling. It’s highly doable to forge a third road in tasteful pastel shades.
And they’re totally not shamelessly piggybacking off the imminent release of the depressing phenomenon that is the film version of Fifty Shades of Grey. I’m rather disappointed that thought occurred to you at all. This impulse springs quite entirely from a motivation to improve conditions for the poor incarcerated patients. Or perhaps it’s a drive to make surroundings quite so embarrassingly twee as to make the sickies want to get the hell out of there as soon as physically possible. The NHS do very much need to make all manner of cuts and savings wherever they can.
Of course the new rules will do nothing to alter the status quo of how things are right at this very moment. No one is proposing to go about with a vast quantity of white paint and a stack of tiles (or whatever administrators choose to use to cover the walls and such) and making some serious stylistic alterations. But maybe, just maybe, whoever’s behind it all is really hoping that it will cause others to go on out and get rid of that depressing grey so that it will haunt the corridors of the national health service (and any number of private healthcare providers we’ll say no more about) for not a single second longer. We can only hope.
You know how it is, you indulge in just the one brief spell of internet based indecency and you find yourself all of a sudden hankering after wreaking havoc on unsuspecting millions. Or at least that’s how it happened to be for barrel chested shirtless horse riding (by that I do of course mean that he himself is more than happy to parade about without a top on. It’s a rare thing indeed that you see a horse with a shirt on. They’re shameless exhibitionists and natural flirts to the very core) judo practising Vladimir Putin.
I don’t happen to know every single scrap of the particulars (because I quite frankly didn’t want to go about the process of discovering them. It is something of a sensitive issue after all and I’m slightly squeamish about it) but it’s perfectly common knowledge that there was pleasure of the moderately selfish variety going on when it all started to go down. Maybe he was interrupted at an inopportune moment, perhaps the interminable buffering proved to be simply all too much to bear, whatever it was caused poor old Vlad to snap (and that’s really saying something considering what he was like before).
Such an incident might not have had any far reaching or global consequences were it not for the fact that when you happen to be the entirely undisputed leader of all Russia your finger tends to hover over some pretty major buttons. And when you find yourself getting all hot and bothered under the collar it’s a quite definitely reasonable reaction for you to experience the uncontrollable itching urge to want to press said buttons. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you (and yet I will do so anyway, that’s how deeply charitable I am) that it’s a pretty short leap from wanting to press to pressing to unleashing hell on the townsfolk.
It’s fair to say that it’s been well documented (in the media no less and when do they ever take a shaky statistic and twist it round until it’s no longer remotely true and positively screaming for mercy? Exactly, never) that a rather large proportion of the population experience a political shift towards the right as they get older. Perhaps it’s simply the case that folk shed the ideals they held so dear during their youth as they accumulate stuff that might well get taxed. Or maybe something’s going on upstairs in brain city. That must be it, it’s definitely got nothing to do with selfishness or a faintly Scrooge like mentality that the filthy poor must never be allowed to get their filthy paws on the swag you’ve worked so hard to earn.
With a mere one hundred days to go until the election (hadn’t you heard? It’s so terribly exciting isn’t it? I wonder what embarrassingly low percentage of the electorate will bother to turn out to pop an x next to the candidate they’ve decided they despise the least), the Tories have decided to go with a slightly different strategy. Having identified a new subset of voters, they’re going to go after them hard. I’m not entirely sure whether or not they’ve taken into consideration whether or not those sufficiently far gone with Alzheimer’s are actually still allowed to vote or are even capable.
Whatever goes down in May or whenever it is, at least the Conservatives have decided to innovate (my skin is ever so slightly crawling at the fact that I’m giving them praise. What’s happened to me? Is Ed Milliband really so unappealing that it’s come to this? Or has my journalistic integrity finally kicked in and allowed me rise above the partisan nature of politics to the point where I am truly unbiased? Probably not). I doubt very much it’ll bring them even the most marginal of victories but perhaps they’ve decided that now is the time to lark about because they fancy the sneering jeering role of the opposition for a little while and see how Labour like it.
It was a perfectly natural and understandable initial impulse. They fancied themselves as entrepreneurs, wanting to make their money work for them or something of that nature. It’s hardly surprising that when you’re regularly paid in millions you become increasingly loathe to let it sit there and do nothing whatsoever. They were being good and clever boys, wanting to innovate and invest and make a go of it while the cash was still happily flooding in (even I know that knees don’t last forever in the world of competitive ball kicking. I’m not sure that was the correct term for it).
It’s a terrible shame that they simply didn’t go the right way about it. They purchased a lovely little estate, a decent house with rolling gardens and that. Their cunning plan was to chop it up into nicely sized apartments and convert the whole thing into a top flight care home. They painted it, staffed it and advertised in all the proper places. Then the problems began. It all began when they mistakenly purchased the wrong sort of jelly. They very nearly had a full blown riot on their hands. When they thought they’d got the whole matter very neatly settled down, things went from bad to worse.
I won’t go into the rather mischievous things that went down. I don’t know whether the residents were merely unhappy to be there or began to resent the fortunes of the men at the top. Perhaps they were disgruntled former fans or even rival supporters. Whatever it was that made them so unsatisfied, it led them to all manner of frightfully rebellious behaviour. It might have all been averted if the athletes had invested in a proper manager rather than playing at being big men. It was a real old bungle plain and simple and it’s a chapter we all really ought to move on from, if you don’t mind too awfully.
Can you blame him? He was deemed the top man at UKIP. UKIP. It’s enough to make absolutely anyone begin to have serious questions about the current state of their sanity. When you know that an unreasonably high proportion of such an institution’s electoral hopes hang on you, that knowledge begins to eat away at you more than a little (not that I know from personal experience or anything. I just know because a friend, she had an uncle who heard through a general acquaintance that a bitter enemy had experienced something vaguely along these sorts of lines).
So rather than continue with a less than entirely noble campaigning with flip flopping policy positions left and right, cutting remarks being fired from all around you and that most irritating of political beasts, having to deal with the general public, this electoral maverick has decided to say no. They will no longer be a part of this, they’ve taken a good long look at themselves in the mirror and realised the error of their ways. More than that, it’s suddenly hit them quite how mental they were to embark on such a quest in the first place. How on earth could they have thought that their mental faculties were intact?
Whatever misconceptions they were under before have now evaporated quite entirely. They’re checking out of any hopes for Westminster and checking into a snug and now highly alluring padded cell. They’re positively looking forward to the prospect of being securely swaddled in a straightjacket, stapled to the wall and fed the occasional nourishing smoothie (laced with soothing medication of course) until the urge to seize power passes. I’m starting to rethink my anti election ideas of the other day. All we need to is submit every candidate to a course of intensive therapy in a psychiatric hospital environment to ensure that their motives are at the very least not wholly crazy if not completely sound.