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Latest frothing in the right-wing press concerns traditional Bristish village fetes being driven to extinction by red tape- http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/ukne...age-fetes.html
It's nonsense, obviously. Rather than be wiped out, village fetes will take the traditional escape route for the oppressed counterculture. They'll go underground.
Anyone who remembers the rave culture of 20 years ago will know the score. It'll start with rumours around the knitting circles and coffee-morning circuit. Then flyers will start being passed out by sinister black-clad men in dog-collars answering only to the street-names "Reverand" and "Vicar". Announcements will be made on pirate radio stations, attempting to lure the impressionable young with exotic and illicit delights such as "skittles" and "tombola".
Before you know it, Volvo V50 estates will be loaded up with corned beef sandwiches, flasks of milky tea and tartan picnic blankets, and the raging hordes will descend on peaceful meadows and village squares in their thousands. They'll pass through gateways staffed by sinewy men in sunglasses, wielding sturdy clubs at the "Whack the rat!" games. Children as young as 4 years old will be found hurling themselves around on drug-inspired "bouncy castles", without anyone so much as considering the completion of a risk assessment study beforehand. The makeshift hygiene arrangements at the cricket pavilion will be overwhelmed by the Barbour-clad Visigoths, forming swarming queues in order to spray the effluent from their barbaric bladders and bums.
And the carnage will rage. Yea, it shall rage. And our impressionable little angels shall be seduced into the vices of drug abuse and gambling by those grinning and amply-bosomed matrons beckoning their innocent minds and virginal bodies with the siren songs of shandy and "church roof fund" raffles. The church roof! Your childrens souls whored for the cold and toxic lead of the church roof, forgen in hellfire and sealed in the blood of babes!
And England's sun shall set on overturned marquees and clouds of CS gas, as the curates and councillors conduct pitched battles with the riot squad. As the last glimmer of light flees shrieking at dust, the treasurer of the Women's Institute shall raise aloft the severed head of the Deputy Superintendant, shrieking in a berzerker fury, before letting it fall. The last faint seepings of gore from his tattered jugular shall soak into the shortbread crumbs and squashed fudge, and Britannia shall weep in shame.
Let's round them all up into camps and gas them. It's the only way.
It's nonsense, obviously. Rather than be wiped out, village fetes will take the traditional escape route for the oppressed counterculture. They'll go underground.
Anyone who remembers the rave culture of 20 years ago will know the score. It'll start with rumours around the knitting circles and coffee-morning circuit. Then flyers will start being passed out by sinister black-clad men in dog-collars answering only to the street-names "Reverand" and "Vicar". Announcements will be made on pirate radio stations, attempting to lure the impressionable young with exotic and illicit delights such as "skittles" and "tombola".
Before you know it, Volvo V50 estates will be loaded up with corned beef sandwiches, flasks of milky tea and tartan picnic blankets, and the raging hordes will descend on peaceful meadows and village squares in their thousands. They'll pass through gateways staffed by sinewy men in sunglasses, wielding sturdy clubs at the "Whack the rat!" games. Children as young as 4 years old will be found hurling themselves around on drug-inspired "bouncy castles", without anyone so much as considering the completion of a risk assessment study beforehand. The makeshift hygiene arrangements at the cricket pavilion will be overwhelmed by the Barbour-clad Visigoths, forming swarming queues in order to spray the effluent from their barbaric bladders and bums.
And the carnage will rage. Yea, it shall rage. And our impressionable little angels shall be seduced into the vices of drug abuse and gambling by those grinning and amply-bosomed matrons beckoning their innocent minds and virginal bodies with the siren songs of shandy and "church roof fund" raffles. The church roof! Your childrens souls whored for the cold and toxic lead of the church roof, forgen in hellfire and sealed in the blood of babes!
And England's sun shall set on overturned marquees and clouds of CS gas, as the curates and councillors conduct pitched battles with the riot squad. As the last glimmer of light flees shrieking at dust, the treasurer of the Women's Institute shall raise aloft the severed head of the Deputy Superintendant, shrieking in a berzerker fury, before letting it fall. The last faint seepings of gore from his tattered jugular shall soak into the shortbread crumbs and squashed fudge, and Britannia shall weep in shame.
Let's round them all up into camps and gas them. It's the only way.
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