What, you didn’t see it coming? You thought that the Tories would be overcome with a sudden bout of socialist conscience and start thinking about the education of the children belonging to people without a simply inordinate amount of money? You unconventional of you. Really, it’s rather refreshing to hear such sensibilities aired. It makes me feel terribly jaded by comparison.
So there’s this private school. It’s been around for a very long time indeed and you may or may not have heard of it. Just in case it happens to have escaped your consciousness I won’t bother to mention the name in question because why does it deserve the oxygen of publicity? They don’t need my help at any rate. The private school in question has been ever so slightly endangered by recent world events. You know the ones.
But there’s absolutely no need to panic. There’s rarely much of a reason to properly get one’s knickers in a twist because things are really pretty relaxed in this very sedate world. In this particular instance the reason why you shouldn’t be worried is that help is very close at hand. Top ranking members within the higher echelons of the Conservative party are poised to swing into the fray and save us all from the impending peril. And of course by all I meant those who could pay for the aid and are therefore deserving of a helping hand.
They’re pulling out all the stops to save the school. Obviously in real world terms that loosely translates to writing out several eye wateringly large cheques. However, people have whipped themselves up into something of a furore over this help. You know, because there are nine or twelve thousand more pressing needs and deserving causes that would benefit more from a cash influx. Like my sudden desire to own all the most well known works of art of the past millennia.
Biological warfare has made yet another grand leap. Once upon a very long time ago opposing sides required no greater technology than that required to poke one another with sharpened sticks. Then came longer distance combat with the introduction of archery, then artillery and slightly more modern things like guns. After which comes love, marriage and something to do with carriages unless I’ve managed to get my nursery rhymes very confused indeed.
As we’ve developed as a civilisation we’ve managed to devise more and more sophisticated ways of killing each other along the ways. After a while it just gets really rather scary. Back in the day it was blinding enemy ranks with copious amounts of mustard gas. Later down the line scientific geniuses invented nuclear weapons and we eventually got to look forward to the exciting future of succumbing to radiation sickness if we somehow made it through the initial barrage of explosions.
Lately, a lot of attention has been lent to the idea of simply making forces on the other side far too ill to fight back. Strains of flu from a whole menagerie of unsuspecting animals were played with. Someone decided it was a cracking plan to unearth the last strain of smallpox to see if they could cross it with something else to make it that little bit more deadly.
Then something really insidious happens because they began to turn their thoughts to dementia. Why not merely get the people so intent on blowing your friends to bits to forget why they went to war in the first place? You could screw with their cognitive faculties to the point that they’d struggle to remember how to tie their own shoelaces or where it was they lived so that they’d never even go to the bother of engaging with you in battle. Then you could sneak behind them and stick them with the pointy end so you could make super sure there was no threat of retaliation. Military science everyone.
Haven’t you heard what’s happening in the student population? Well, that’s probably good for your soul and whatnot because that particular population is beginning to reach depths of depravity the likes of which most people won’t have previously dreamt of. But anyway, something’s sweeping through the hardworking undergraduates, cutting something of a swathe through those hapless misfits.
It’s definitely not a well worn excuse for delays in handing in that crucial last essay or even a dissertation. Certainly, the first person didn’t just discover a totally brilliant excuse for getting out of doing work before the deadline. They definitely didn’t immediately trot off to the nearest pub and begin regaling absolutely anyone who’d listen with tales of how brilliantly they’d shirked various responsibilities and convinced their supervisor that they deserved an extension. Such stories that didn’t get told gave absolutely no one any ideas about coming out with such lies of their own to avoid whatever was going on.
So here’s the long and short of it. A terrible virus is making its merry way through students. It’s so close to apocalyptic I’m not sure I can bring myself to go into particulars for at least a few more sentences. I am quite surely not padding, neither are the students because that would be really rather devious and we’d never want to deceive you in such an appalling fashion.
Unexplained rashes, boils, stabbing pains in the liver. These are just a few of the symptoms that haven’t been recently exhibited by the sufferers of the virus. It’s been more often a little along the lines of sudden and incompatible lethargy, somewhat explosive diarrhoea that we won’t spend much longer discussing and a surging and compelling need to wear dark glasses and not do any variety of work whatsoever. It’s a totally legitimate medical thing.
When you’re embarking on any sort of investigation in this turbulent world you can often find yourself getting a little down in the mouth before too long. They don’t exactly tend to launch inquiries all that often into whether puppies are cuter than kittens or vice versa. No, it tends to be down to whether or not someone did the despicable thing they’re accused of or if people have been launched further into misery by the latest government initiative.
It’s a horrible job but someone does indeed actually have to do it. We simply can’t trust the fact that the sadness will probably occur anyway even if we don’t compulsively collect data regarding it. However, a grizzled lady investigatoress has decided that enough is well and truly enough. She can’t hack it anymore.
Previously she depended on a heady cocktail of alcohol and whatever crushed up pills she unearthed at the bottom of her handbag. Sadly, someone caught her sucking the tablet dust out of the carpet. Before she could so much as blink (much less brush off the incident and explain that she was merely hunting in the rug for one of the contact lenses she doesn’t wear) she was wheeled off to the psychiatrist. There she was able to unload her woes and anxieties on a thoroughly unsuspecting doctor who duly prescribed a course of SSRIs.
Sadly things catapulted from bad to worse. Sure, the pills and regular therapy helped morph our fact hunter into a well-adjusted human being but they proved to be something of a professional handicap. She’d lost her nose for truth, her cynicism that compelled her to dig deep to the bottom of stacks of papers, to the very heart of the matter. This was a completely unacceptable consequence and so the depression drugs had to go. She’s back on the gin though so happy endings all round.
It’s a complicated, depressing world. Everything costs too much, you’re not experienced enough for the sort of work you want to be doing, life is terrible and you can’t afford anything. And the government wants an ever increasing slice of that precious pie you get to take home after a gruelling month or week of work. Not that I’m trying to depress you or anything. Why would I do anything so twisted and sadistic?
The point is that it’s difficult to contemplate quite how long you’re going to have to carry on working for. The giddy starry eyed graduate soon evaporates once you realise that you’re in this for a really rather long haul. So why not set a completely arbitrary deadline? This will make you feel that much more in command of your working life as well as adding a pleasing gamification element to proceedings.
The only truly inevitable things in life are death and taxes. You can always have a go at sleeping when you’re dead as long as you try not to act too surprised at how soon the reaper comes to claim you. But taxes come more often than once in a lifetime (sadly) so they’re probably a slightly more suitable yardstick to go by. Council tax is basically an extra added punishment for those living in a nice area. Why should they be made to suffer for being superior to the plebs surrounding them (I think residing in Tory heartland might finally have got to me)?
Keep an eye on what you’re being forced to pay for simply living in a house. Once it exceeds a predetermined level that’s when you can jack in the day job because you’re basically one hundred per cent done with society. Disappear off into the woods and become a wild person with tangled hair and a greater level of satisfaction than anyone else you know. You can hold philosophical conversations with the squirrels and live in a mud hut. Oh what fun you’ll have.
Against the background of corporate greed and a hundred other suddenly public sins it’s probably not all that surprising the lengths people will go to in order to hang on to just a little bit more of their precious moolah. Dodges and shuffles around and the spiriting away of might briefcases of cash to idyllic holiday retreats, you know the sort of thing I’m talking about. You also know in your heart of hearts that the larger the company, the more likely they are to resort to something questionable in this pursuit.
The higher ups at Google were delighted when they realised that this particular scheme just might work out. Executives became even more excited when they figured out that drones were the key to success. Finally, they’d basically be Batman and James Bond and someone even more high tech all rolled into one as the glorious planned played out. Then they could reward themselves with a mega bonus only slightly greater than all the money they’d saved from the scheme.
It went a little something like this. Siphon off small but considerable sums of money from company profits. Bundle up said windfalls into easily concealable packages. Give to drones. Fly drones over the surging mass of immigrants making their own personal play for freedom and a better life. Sit back and wait. The journeying folk will discover the money and surreptitiously pay it back to headquarters as per the subtle suggestions wrapped around the cash.
So it’s a real shame this happened because it’s spoiled the whole migration situation for everyone else. Formerly open arms have been forced to snap shut with a deafening clang. Borders around the world had to be sealed up tight before Google were able to smuggle through so much as another cent. Now they’re having to shamefacedly own up to the naughtiness they’ve been trying to get away with.
I’m sure that plenty of people out there will have heard of the phrase ‘go big or go home.’ It’s easy to tell that Mr Osborne is something of a fan of the saying. His mother sat him down recently and let him know in no uncertain terms that his current efforts simply weren’t up to scratch. She went on to spin him a tale that we won’t go into right now. Suffice it to say that the eventual moral of the story related rather closely to the saying we’ve already discussed.
So it was time and past for George to strap on his big boy boots and go forth tackling a few of the bigger issues of the day. Just as he was doing so, words that his father had recently imparted rang in his ears. Sure, going big or going home was important but he should also take care to pick his battles. It was all well and good to get all puffed up and go after terrorists or tax cheats or whatever but Osborne would look ridiculous if things didn’t pan out well for him. He had to consider the optics.
After several cups of tea and several hours spent scouring the papers, various news sites, Twitter and more for matters to get indignant about, he had it. Someone somewhere had gathered the audacity to print a gun. If a person only had to shell out one hundred pounds and end up with a working firearm without having to go through the usual permit channels or whatever then surely it was a mockery of everything good people stood for? Or at least that’s what he decided to put in the press release.
Osborne set to work. He employed thousands of surveillance operatives to keep an eye on anyone with access to a 3D printer. He bought a stack of the machines for his personal use to work out how they could be used to manufacture arms. No fewer than six advertising agencies were tasked with devising campaigns to put people off printing guns. And so on and so forth. Big he certainly went.