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| Jim Burns |
Tony Blair’s voice echoes from the interior of the 12-legged alien that so
recently (and at such cost) arrived here on the northern bulge of the Greenwich
peninsula.
History rewritten (if they can do it, so can we) tells us that this is the millennial edition of the Labour party’s annual conference, and Tony is feeling very pleased with himself, he is (after all) the king of the future; the master of millennium marketing; the killer of the Labour Party’s social conscience; He is the Conservative Party’s own 007 sent deep into enemy terriTory to seize the helm of the evil communist empire.
Seen from above, it can be ascertained that the Alien is rather more complex than the mere hemispherical spider: that the dome is merely a circular single eye on a one-legged octopus that occupies the entire peninsular from northern eye to southern Charlton hem – all forming an ecosystem which requires a daily ration of human activity for sustenance. To such ends, along its eastern shore are housed the occupants of its residential cells; consumer feeders themselves led to the gut, where nutrients are supplied (at a cost) to retail vats via the A2 intravenous tube.
Consumer corpuscles are transported to and, spent, whisked away from the dome interior; that mythical Thatcherian marketplace that defines the alien’s prime function. Tony’s backers are more than a little pleased with his role in transporting (in a mere 6 years) the possession of the bought alien into the bloodied hands of the English machine. Yes, Tony’s feeling very pleased with himself, he believes himself to be the architect of this triumph, this great leap into immortality.
It’s unclear whether he is aware that the true architect of this millennial financial triumph is John Major, for it was he who passed the resolutions that allowed the alien to materialise. The alien will later be sold (for the sum of £1) to a rich multinational who, after some financial distraction and manipulation of the alien’s interior, will pass its body on to be ravished by the country’s recently privatised national telephone company at whose directorship sits none other than… the mild mannered ex-Prime Minister himself (stroking a white Persian cat).
But that’s all in the future; it’s the Millennium and Tony’s preparing for his own (self-choreographed) ascent to godhead and it’s going to be a world-changer, a blood sacrifice that will wipe millions of lives from the surface of this pathetic planet and bring it to its knees before the writhing and all-consuming capitalist behemoth octopus.
But hey, none of this ever really happened; how could it? Not here under the warm mentorship of government; here after the Brexit sunset that has left us to the Covid-19 night.
History rewritten (if they can do it, so can we) tells us that this is the millennial edition of the Labour party’s annual conference, and Tony is feeling very pleased with himself, he is (after all) the king of the future; the master of millennium marketing; the killer of the Labour Party’s social conscience; He is the Conservative Party’s own 007 sent deep into enemy terriTory to seize the helm of the evil communist empire.
Seen from above, it can be ascertained that the Alien is rather more complex than the mere hemispherical spider: that the dome is merely a circular single eye on a one-legged octopus that occupies the entire peninsular from northern eye to southern Charlton hem – all forming an ecosystem which requires a daily ration of human activity for sustenance. To such ends, along its eastern shore are housed the occupants of its residential cells; consumer feeders themselves led to the gut, where nutrients are supplied (at a cost) to retail vats via the A2 intravenous tube.
Consumer corpuscles are transported to and, spent, whisked away from the dome interior; that mythical Thatcherian marketplace that defines the alien’s prime function. Tony’s backers are more than a little pleased with his role in transporting (in a mere 6 years) the possession of the bought alien into the bloodied hands of the English machine. Yes, Tony’s feeling very pleased with himself, he believes himself to be the architect of this triumph, this great leap into immortality.
It’s unclear whether he is aware that the true architect of this millennial financial triumph is John Major, for it was he who passed the resolutions that allowed the alien to materialise. The alien will later be sold (for the sum of £1) to a rich multinational who, after some financial distraction and manipulation of the alien’s interior, will pass its body on to be ravished by the country’s recently privatised national telephone company at whose directorship sits none other than… the mild mannered ex-Prime Minister himself (stroking a white Persian cat).
But that’s all in the future; it’s the Millennium and Tony’s preparing for his own (self-choreographed) ascent to godhead and it’s going to be a world-changer, a blood sacrifice that will wipe millions of lives from the surface of this pathetic planet and bring it to its knees before the writhing and all-consuming capitalist behemoth octopus.
But hey, none of this ever really happened; how could it? Not here under the warm mentorship of government; here after the Brexit sunset that has left us to the Covid-19 night.
1 comment:
good lord. Wtf? But... i've loved the spaceport painting since i first saw it in an 80's? copy of Omni magazine
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