'They don't like peace campaigners 'round here, as they nailed another one to the wall'
- Stan Boardman, revolutionary civil rights campainger and feminist, 1979.
Dearest children. Children of the revolutionary cycle of life. Come!
I am saddened, and deeply distressed by the ongoing plight of the disenfranchised acrosss the globe. The children of Syria, the executed black lives of America, the resting actors of north London.
It is for the latter that my heart rises. I bulge with love for my fellow thespians, denied a voice by oppression. Two days ago, I rose. I rose within and across the twins, before demanding respite, and seeking Coco Pops from the larder. I summonsed Melvin from under the stairs, banishing the Papist exorcist who slept there also. This was not a matter for Christian represession of the people!
Bruno, my muse, arrived, making a statement of intent as ever having purloined a comedy milk float. I had envisioned a carnival float a la Notting Hill circa 1956, however needs must as we say in the trade! And Bruno was trade. Once.
I outlined my dream to my ardent believers in verse:
There once was an actor called John,
Who thought that the world was a con,
Black people are dying,
Some children get bombed,
Yet John still can't get cast as the dame.
I held them, one by one, in silence, each of them racked with sobs, moved to tears by my words. I said nothing further, offering my feet for massage. With that moment, I felt one with Jesus Christ, and understood what it was to found a religion by mistake.
Having organised what I hoped would be a rather lucrative phone-in competition to decide on a name for my new gathering, I set forth. As we mounted our float, the vest wearing Breixit voter from next door leant from his upper window and hailed us well. 'Fuck off you fucking poof bastards!' I lef the twins to set fire to his wheely bins as we slowly made our way out of town.
To the bad lands we would go. As a life-long creative, I understood that the will of the people would only be turned by a new direction. We would not tread the time worn path of masking up and fighting the filth, or marching around in circles with hand-painted signs. No! I would be taking our fight to the heart of the Tory beast.
The annual general meeting of Little Piddling Parish Council.
Yes my children. Ours would be a protest that would go down in history. Rosa Parks. Nelson Mandela. All would pale beneath us. Today I would save the souls of resting actors.
The bastard milk float ran out of petrol just beyond the M25.