-embargo 9am Thurs 21st May 2009-
Over recent days, it has become abundantly clear to me that our parliament is no longer - in the current jargon - fit for purpose.
Pages and pages of newsprint detailing how, while we slept softly in our beds, our representatives snuck out to the newsagents and flagrantly bought toilet brushes and jumbo packs of Doritos at our expense. Allegations that individual members claimed properties in the East Midlands were their "main home", as if anyone would be so foolish as to admit that. And the holder of the most venerable office in the mother of all democracies driven from his golden throne with pointed branches and whips, stripped naked, doused in honey and feathers and left chained to the statue of Winston Churchill.
Your democracy is clearly in disarray, and once more, as history has so often shown us, you must turn to the line of Weevil for succour. And this Weevil, for one, is only too glad to make you that succour.
Which is why, as of today, I am formally announcing the revival of a long dormant but ancient political party. The Weevilists. The Weevilists - the party responsible for some of the brightest flames in the history of government - Weevil the Elder, Weevil The Younger, Weevil Chamberlain, Harold Weevilson- I could go on.
But I stand before you today, determined to draw a line in the mud, and announce a new future for our party and this country.
The Weevilist Party of today will hence forward be known as W2 or Weevil Squared. Squared, because we want to square the circle of the mess that we now find ourselves in.
We have some very clear aims:
1. The absolute ban on Doritos in all government owned buildings.
2. Toilet brushes to be provided free of charge to every man, woman and weevil.
2. The entire East Midlands region to be razed to the ground, and declared a No Go zone.
3. The whipping, tarring and feathering of the Speaker to be made an annual tradition, and televised.
I hope that this makes clear we will not shrink from difficult or unpopular decisions, or our collective responsibility.
I urge the Prime Minister to do the responsible thing, and to stop lounging around his swimming pool at 10 Downing St in his tight speedos, sipping on strawberry daiquiris, and to put down the Jackie Collins novels, and pick up the phone to call a General Election.
Because when he calls that General Election, he can be sure General Election will say "Hello? Who is this? And why are you calling me at this time of night?" And we need to be sure that the Prime Minister will say "Because we need you, General Election, and quick. I am running out of daiquiris." I could go on.
When that day arrives, you will have a very clear choice. To do nothing, and watch your personal bill for flavoured tortilla chips and toilet accessories literally go through the roof. Or, to stick your cross in my box.
Stick your cross in my box, and vote Weevil.
GOODBYE DORITOS. GOODBYE EAST MIDLANDS.
HELLO TOILET BRUSHES. AND A NEW BRITAIN!
Thank you very much
Alfonso the Weevil
(Prospective Parliamentary Candidate for Bladdersby and Chumnut South, Weevilists aka W2)
Thursday 21 May 2009
Wednesday 13 May 2009
THE CASE OF CHET MILLERBY AND THE MISSING WEEVIL: Chapter Eight
Inside the matchbox was not, as you might have expected, a weevil of any description – alive or dead.
But there was a very small La-Z-Boy chair, dimly illuminated by a pool of light from a standing angle-poise lamp. At the base of the chair there was a small pile of weevil body-building magazines, and some empty cans of lager. The chair faced a miniature widescreen TV, which was playing “Joe Versus The Volcano” on a loop, with the sound turned down. A chest of drawers stood to the side of the TV, with the drawers all hanging out and ajar, as if somebody had been through them in a great hurry.
“That’s quite a matchbox”, said Chet.
“No weevil, though”, said Tony through his nose. Or at least, that’s what it sounded like to Chet.
“You’re good”, murmured Chet, “you know that? Fancy my job?”
He said it with a smile, but there was a menace in his voice. The greasy patron took a step back from the bar. Chet leaned over and with an easy swing of his paw grabbed Tony by his bowtie, and pulled his head down onto the bar with a thump that rattled the glasses, and made the matchbox jump a little in the air.
“I don’t know anything!” protested Tony, who really was speaking through his nose now.
Chet stuck the can opener into his cheek.
“This can opener is made of pure titanium. It can slice open a man’s skull in thirty seconds. And apparently, that really hurts. Do you want to find out how much?”
Tony grimaced, and spat onto the counter, except owing to the angle, it more dribbled out of his mouth and made him look mentally ill.
“I’m telling you nothing, you dumb cat”
Chet flicked a switch on the can opener, and the jagged teeth began to whirr furiously with a high-pitched whine. He inched it fractionally into Tony’s cheek, and a spray of blood hit the bottles on the back wall.
“Ok! Ok! Please! Don’t touch the nose!”
Chet turned the can-opener off, although the wheels continued to spin for a moment.
“Well?”
“This is all I know, I swear. A man used to come here. He said he had a weevil. He said he had some trouble with wood demons, who claimed the weevil was theirs. I told him-“ He paused.
Chet turned the can opener on again.
“Please! Damn your cat eyes! I told him I couldn’t help him. I told him the only person who might be able to was Big Al.”
Chet let go of his tie, and Tony slumped to the floor in a bloodied daze.
“You disgusting piece of filth. You set him up.”
“I never-“
But Tony’s words echoed to an empty bar, and the sound of his restaurant’s cat flap still swinging in the wind. Chet was long gone, quicker than the wind, hoping he might not be too late...
TO BE CONTINUED
But there was a very small La-Z-Boy chair, dimly illuminated by a pool of light from a standing angle-poise lamp. At the base of the chair there was a small pile of weevil body-building magazines, and some empty cans of lager. The chair faced a miniature widescreen TV, which was playing “Joe Versus The Volcano” on a loop, with the sound turned down. A chest of drawers stood to the side of the TV, with the drawers all hanging out and ajar, as if somebody had been through them in a great hurry.
“That’s quite a matchbox”, said Chet.
“No weevil, though”, said Tony through his nose. Or at least, that’s what it sounded like to Chet.
“You’re good”, murmured Chet, “you know that? Fancy my job?”
He said it with a smile, but there was a menace in his voice. The greasy patron took a step back from the bar. Chet leaned over and with an easy swing of his paw grabbed Tony by his bowtie, and pulled his head down onto the bar with a thump that rattled the glasses, and made the matchbox jump a little in the air.
“I don’t know anything!” protested Tony, who really was speaking through his nose now.
Chet stuck the can opener into his cheek.
“This can opener is made of pure titanium. It can slice open a man’s skull in thirty seconds. And apparently, that really hurts. Do you want to find out how much?”
Tony grimaced, and spat onto the counter, except owing to the angle, it more dribbled out of his mouth and made him look mentally ill.
“I’m telling you nothing, you dumb cat”
Chet flicked a switch on the can opener, and the jagged teeth began to whirr furiously with a high-pitched whine. He inched it fractionally into Tony’s cheek, and a spray of blood hit the bottles on the back wall.
“Ok! Ok! Please! Don’t touch the nose!”
Chet turned the can-opener off, although the wheels continued to spin for a moment.
“Well?”
“This is all I know, I swear. A man used to come here. He said he had a weevil. He said he had some trouble with wood demons, who claimed the weevil was theirs. I told him-“ He paused.
Chet turned the can opener on again.
“Please! Damn your cat eyes! I told him I couldn’t help him. I told him the only person who might be able to was Big Al.”
Chet let go of his tie, and Tony slumped to the floor in a bloodied daze.
“You disgusting piece of filth. You set him up.”
“I never-“
But Tony’s words echoed to an empty bar, and the sound of his restaurant’s cat flap still swinging in the wind. Chet was long gone, quicker than the wind, hoping he might not be too late...
TO BE CONTINUED
Tuesday 12 May 2009
The Case of Chet Millerby And The Missing Weevil- Chapter Seven
PREVIOUSLY ON CHET MILLERBY...Chet Millerby, the world's most famous cat detective, has been hired by a mysterious man in a yodelling costume to track down his beloved weevil, Alfonso. A mysterious match box has so far led the feline sleuth to Tony's French-Bulgarian Brasserie...
"So what's theez all about?", said Tony, wiping down the zinc bar with a white rag. "To what do I owe the pleasure, eef eet can be called a pleasure, of Britain's famous cat detective?" He hoiked some phlegm into a bucket at his feet, which made the noise of a bullet ricocheting around a bell tower.
Chet merely wrinkled his nose, and slid the matchbox the man had left in his office across the counter.
"Do you know what this is?"
Tony shrugged. "Of course. Our world famous free matches. You can keep it if you like."
"It's not mine. I have reason to believe it once belonged to a weevil."
The bar fell quiet. For the first time Chet noticed that a player piano had been churning out honky-tonk in the corner, with a gaggle of French dancers in pink crinoline gossiping and chirruping like birds around it - now they all stopped suddenly, and an old man accidentally fired his pistol into the air, bringing down a small section of ceiling in a cloud of dust and plaster.
"I don't know anything about no weevil", said Tony, drawing himself up to his full, ugly height."
"Oh yeah?", said Chet, gesturing with his can-opener. "Well how do you explain those then?"He pointed to the wall behind Tony.
And there, hung high on the wall, above the unwashed glass shelves cluttered with dusty, greasy bottles, above the antique mirror with the bullet holes, but below the wonky chandelier, were rows and rows of photographs.
Photographs you might not have given a second glance to were you but a casual drinker coming in here for some steak and frites or half a bottle of Absinthe and the can-can. But photographs that a trained cat detective immediately noticed, with his acute eye for the obvious clue.
Photographs of weevils.
There was Alabaster the Weevil, the mid-weight beetle boxing champ of 1916. Arlene Weevil, siren of the silent movies. Captain Algernon Weevil, RAF flying ace and amateur ventriloquist. Next to them, chipped but autographed- A Weevil and A Wig, the infamous weevil-earwig double act who entertained the gangland nightspots of the Fifties. A lurid colour snap of legendary music svengali Big Al Weevil and his lovelies splayed around an Antibes swimming pool. There was Arthur Weevil, the host of such radio panel shows as "Half A Crown? Mind Yer Bleeding Bob!" and "I'll Get Up When It's Over".
Chet put the date of that last photo as approximately 1979.Then- nothing. A total gap. Or at least he though he could make out some blank spaces where photos had once been.
And then the photos began again, nearer the ceiling still. A Weevil Is A Danca, the nineties rave act, flashing his bling at the camera with a gold toothed grin, and the first ever Weevil TV reality star, "Awful" Ajax the Weevil.
Tony didn't even bother to follow Chet's gaze behind his head. He didn't bat a muscle, or move an eyelid.
"I don't know about thees weevil", he said, jabbing a thick finger at the matchbox.
Chet realised in an instant the mistake he had made. Oh the things that stare you in the face, and you see right through. He was a good cat detective, probably the best, but even he could still be surprised.
He opened the matchbox.
TO BE CONTINUED...
"So what's theez all about?", said Tony, wiping down the zinc bar with a white rag. "To what do I owe the pleasure, eef eet can be called a pleasure, of Britain's famous cat detective?" He hoiked some phlegm into a bucket at his feet, which made the noise of a bullet ricocheting around a bell tower.
Chet merely wrinkled his nose, and slid the matchbox the man had left in his office across the counter.
"Do you know what this is?"
Tony shrugged. "Of course. Our world famous free matches. You can keep it if you like."
"It's not mine. I have reason to believe it once belonged to a weevil."
The bar fell quiet. For the first time Chet noticed that a player piano had been churning out honky-tonk in the corner, with a gaggle of French dancers in pink crinoline gossiping and chirruping like birds around it - now they all stopped suddenly, and an old man accidentally fired his pistol into the air, bringing down a small section of ceiling in a cloud of dust and plaster.
"I don't know anything about no weevil", said Tony, drawing himself up to his full, ugly height."
"Oh yeah?", said Chet, gesturing with his can-opener. "Well how do you explain those then?"He pointed to the wall behind Tony.
And there, hung high on the wall, above the unwashed glass shelves cluttered with dusty, greasy bottles, above the antique mirror with the bullet holes, but below the wonky chandelier, were rows and rows of photographs.
Photographs you might not have given a second glance to were you but a casual drinker coming in here for some steak and frites or half a bottle of Absinthe and the can-can. But photographs that a trained cat detective immediately noticed, with his acute eye for the obvious clue.
Photographs of weevils.
There was Alabaster the Weevil, the mid-weight beetle boxing champ of 1916. Arlene Weevil, siren of the silent movies. Captain Algernon Weevil, RAF flying ace and amateur ventriloquist. Next to them, chipped but autographed- A Weevil and A Wig, the infamous weevil-earwig double act who entertained the gangland nightspots of the Fifties. A lurid colour snap of legendary music svengali Big Al Weevil and his lovelies splayed around an Antibes swimming pool. There was Arthur Weevil, the host of such radio panel shows as "Half A Crown? Mind Yer Bleeding Bob!" and "I'll Get Up When It's Over".
Chet put the date of that last photo as approximately 1979.Then- nothing. A total gap. Or at least he though he could make out some blank spaces where photos had once been.
And then the photos began again, nearer the ceiling still. A Weevil Is A Danca, the nineties rave act, flashing his bling at the camera with a gold toothed grin, and the first ever Weevil TV reality star, "Awful" Ajax the Weevil.
Tony didn't even bother to follow Chet's gaze behind his head. He didn't bat a muscle, or move an eyelid.
"I don't know about thees weevil", he said, jabbing a thick finger at the matchbox.
Chet realised in an instant the mistake he had made. Oh the things that stare you in the face, and you see right through. He was a good cat detective, probably the best, but even he could still be surprised.
He opened the matchbox.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
