You may very well be some kind of semi-professional arranger of artichokes for the perusal and delectation of porpoises, but that cuts no ice here in the rural heartland of this great and noble country. It is the stout yeomen of this Fair Isle who – throughout history – have proved to be a bunch of awkward bastards. All seemingly spending most of their waking hours – when not putting themselves on the outside of as many pies and pints of ale as the human body can manage – coming up with more and more suitably arcane methods of becoming complete pains in the arse of all and sundry, especially those that like to think they are ‘in charge’.
One of the great strengths of the British is their reluctance to be bossed around, not just by those who think they have a divine right to rule, but also by those who think that those who believe they have such a divine right should be – forcibly, if possible – disabused of any such notion, preferably with the aid of hot pokers.
Now, I am sure you are wondering what this has to do with rural perversions.
I’m glad you asked me that, because all of the above serves as something of a preamble in order to keep your attention diverted as we applying the tupping harness to the cake shop manageress and begin to apply warm butter to the social worker in readiness for today’s pre-election orgy in the village hall, where all local parliamentary candidates are invited to take part in a traditional full Pineapple Inquiry, the survivor of which wins the votes of all the denizens of Little Frigging eligible to vote, and who can manage to extract themselves from the orgy before the polling booth set up at the University of Little Frigging’s Law Studies Faculty (formerly the pig sty) closes for the evening.