You know those ideas that seem hugely bad at first glance, but after a little while with the alternative, you start to think that it might not have been such a bad option after all? I've come across one of those today, and, surprisingly enough, it's the monarchy.
Yes I know they're an undemocratic, overstayed, gold-plated bunch of powdered-haired plutocrats in the rose-tinted, green-spectacled eyes of spiky fist-pumping student protest types, but at least they wouldn't faff about wasting £1.5m on having a giant metal spider terrify some Scousers. Democracy is all well and good, but you really cannot run a country on it for more than a few decades without everyone descending into the sort of tyranny of the masses that leads to everything being measured in incubators. There's a mental hospital near me that's being closed down next year, and there are absolutely zero plans to replace it, which means that my county will be one of the few in Britain without a dedicated mental care facility, but there haven't been any protests, because the council have been making big noises about how they're going to use the extra money to pay for some incubators.
This is why the country needs to be run by someone who can point out how stupid you're all being, while safely locked behind some massive marble gates protecting them from the flaming torches of the Think of the Children, yummy-mummy mob who would rather let everyone over eight years old starve to death rather than let little Jocasta go without her designer toenails. The country needs a ruler that can tell you, without fear of reprisal, to piss off.
Now, I don't mean to sound callous, but I've not been seeing a glut of dead children who could have been saved with the careful application of more incubators. We have enough. There is clearly an adequate amount of incubators. An abundance, even. What there isn't, any more, is anything else. A good friend of mine has been sent from pillar to post over the last few months in pursuit of the machine which will electrocute his badly broken leg back to life, in order that he might be able to hobble more than four feet at a time for the rest of his life. He rolled up to the local hospital which was booked to give him the treatment, on the date he'd had from them for the past five months, and left in a waiting room for six hours only to eventually be told that they didn't have the machine, because they'd sold it. Sold it to who? Someone else with a broken leg who's slightly quicker on the uptake, presumably. And has a few thousand pounds for the hospital to buy more chicken nuggets for the children's menu.
It's a hospital, not a fucking playpark. The Queen needs to come and tell them this while waving a big sceptre about. It'd certainly have more gravitas than a grey suit with a grey man in it bowing down to armies of yummy mummies in 4x4s that they don't even take out in the rain, demanding their child's sniffles be attended to while the rest of us poor unfortunates nurse our own suppurating wounds and bemoan the fact we weren't lucky enough to be five years old with an overprotective mother with a badly-dyed beehive and a voice like a Welsh miner.
Admittedly I hold out little hope that my idea is even remotely workable. Very few of them are.
Also, as a final aside, is it wrong of me to be slightly amused by the fact that there are now so many stabbings, shootings and other violence on Britain's streets that the murder of a 17-year-old boy is no longer reported as a tragedy, a horrific event or even an incident? It's become nothing more than a 'disturbance', i.e. an ambulance crew were disturbed from their dinner to go and scrape another stabbed teenager off the floor. It's getting to the point where they'll have to start stepping over the dead teenagers to get to the dying ones.
I think we should send the Queen onto some council estates with an elephant gun that targets anyone with rediculously white trainers. You know the sort - the kind you only ever see when crossing the street to avoid them, or from three millimeters as the tread is repeatedly stamped into your face.
Goodnight.
Yes I know they're an undemocratic, overstayed, gold-plated bunch of powdered-haired plutocrats in the rose-tinted, green-spectacled eyes of spiky fist-pumping student protest types, but at least they wouldn't faff about wasting £1.5m on having a giant metal spider terrify some Scousers. Democracy is all well and good, but you really cannot run a country on it for more than a few decades without everyone descending into the sort of tyranny of the masses that leads to everything being measured in incubators. There's a mental hospital near me that's being closed down next year, and there are absolutely zero plans to replace it, which means that my county will be one of the few in Britain without a dedicated mental care facility, but there haven't been any protests, because the council have been making big noises about how they're going to use the extra money to pay for some incubators.
This is why the country needs to be run by someone who can point out how stupid you're all being, while safely locked behind some massive marble gates protecting them from the flaming torches of the Think of the Children, yummy-mummy mob who would rather let everyone over eight years old starve to death rather than let little Jocasta go without her designer toenails. The country needs a ruler that can tell you, without fear of reprisal, to piss off.
Now, I don't mean to sound callous, but I've not been seeing a glut of dead children who could have been saved with the careful application of more incubators. We have enough. There is clearly an adequate amount of incubators. An abundance, even. What there isn't, any more, is anything else. A good friend of mine has been sent from pillar to post over the last few months in pursuit of the machine which will electrocute his badly broken leg back to life, in order that he might be able to hobble more than four feet at a time for the rest of his life. He rolled up to the local hospital which was booked to give him the treatment, on the date he'd had from them for the past five months, and left in a waiting room for six hours only to eventually be told that they didn't have the machine, because they'd sold it. Sold it to who? Someone else with a broken leg who's slightly quicker on the uptake, presumably. And has a few thousand pounds for the hospital to buy more chicken nuggets for the children's menu.
It's a hospital, not a fucking playpark. The Queen needs to come and tell them this while waving a big sceptre about. It'd certainly have more gravitas than a grey suit with a grey man in it bowing down to armies of yummy mummies in 4x4s that they don't even take out in the rain, demanding their child's sniffles be attended to while the rest of us poor unfortunates nurse our own suppurating wounds and bemoan the fact we weren't lucky enough to be five years old with an overprotective mother with a badly-dyed beehive and a voice like a Welsh miner.
Admittedly I hold out little hope that my idea is even remotely workable. Very few of them are.
Also, as a final aside, is it wrong of me to be slightly amused by the fact that there are now so many stabbings, shootings and other violence on Britain's streets that the murder of a 17-year-old boy is no longer reported as a tragedy, a horrific event or even an incident? It's become nothing more than a 'disturbance', i.e. an ambulance crew were disturbed from their dinner to go and scrape another stabbed teenager off the floor. It's getting to the point where they'll have to start stepping over the dead teenagers to get to the dying ones.
I think we should send the Queen onto some council estates with an elephant gun that targets anyone with rediculously white trainers. You know the sort - the kind you only ever see when crossing the street to avoid them, or from three millimeters as the tread is repeatedly stamped into your face.
Goodnight.
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