ARMCHAIR THEATRE, THE NEWTORIES, HAMMING IT UP, BLUE BUT GREEN

Oh, fuck me, yes, we often sit around just like this, in matching armchairs, perfectly natural. Answering questions from members of the public. Caring, you see; listening; sitting in armchairs and listening to questions we told people to ask us. John Lewis ? No idea, maybe; I certainly didn't pay for them.


Fuck me, it was worse than the Planted PMQs down le Palais des Felons. Never seen Nick Herbert before but he is a right one. Farming, that's the thing. And fishing, that's the thing, too. And flooding. And as soon as this conference is over, he's jetting, in a green sort of way, because that's what he's all about, to India to look at some shit initiative or other. That's what we need. Fuckwits flying around the world. Only three thousand Rhinos left, probably not enough for Mr George Osblow's vile children to have one each but he doesn't want them to go without, so he'll do his best; keep them in the garden he could, that'd fool the drug-sniffing dogs, not that he does drugs and nor does anyone else set over us in parliament, or at least not all of them. And that's why they can legislate so that we go to jail if we do what they do and they go to the house of lords or to Cliff Richards' holiday Christian bordello.

All sat out there in armchairs they were, three old blokes and an old biddy, and the gay bloke in the middle, maybe they gave him the environment brief, as they call it, because they're good with interior design and colour, although most of the environement is outside, but you know what I mean, no good giving the environment to some pissed-up old fart like Ken Clarke, only set fire to the fucking thing. Anyway, it's traditional. Nick Brown, Rosemary Benn, Margaret Beckett, all queer as a nine-Euro note.

A vision from an expensive care home, it was, like we'll all have to go into, unless we join the grateful dead in some Swiss PurdySnuff clinic; all those old fuckers, all sat there in a row, waiting their turns with the question. I think you should answer this question, said Mr Herbert to one of his duffers, as though they hadn't all been rehearsing this shit for weeks and as though we were all as thick as pig shit, which, of course, we must be on account of how none of these bastards is in jail or hanging from a lamp post. Oh fuck me, fellow viewer, isn't that Mr so-and-so good at answering that question? I think we should vote for his party. Oh, I don't think we should fret about all that expenses shit, not now that Mr Herbert is gonna save the rhinoceroses.

Some drugged-up hippy, pretending to be a police inspector, planted one of the questions. 'Allo 'Allo, 'Allo, whats all this flooding, then? I blame the gentlemen from the Labour Party and how will we New Tories fix this problem? Well first of all, says the Old Biddy, I want to thank all of our magnificent professional emergency services for doing a magnificent professional job everytime the place gets flooded to fuck and as we will expect them to do when the old people take to the streets. And as for the flooding, well, he shouldn't worry his sweet little head about that, clean the ditches out, that should do it.

And what about the fishermen, asked Amber, a transsexual from Cornwall and a ToryPPC, like nearly everybody at the conference, you know a fishing fleet the size of Wales disappears from my constituency every five minutes and it's all Johnny Foreigner's fault, vote for me.

Well yes, what we need is parish councils of fishermen, sort of thing, management, sustainable, all that rot, bad-tempered, smelly bloody nuisance if you ask me, fishermen....

I think, conference, what my honourable friend means is that we truly value the industry and the craft of people plying these marginal trades in fragile communities, just not as much as we value the bankers, or indeed, ourselves, often one and the same

(Cheers. Hurrah fior Gay DEFRA! You wouldn't let your au pair marry one but by God these pooftahs have got their heads screwed-on.)

Free fish and chips for all, from sustainable parish council fisheries. And farms fit for Mr Osblow's children to visit in the summer hols. Jesus, its just like John Major, all over again. And No More Flood and Wetness. Maybe it was the farms that were to be run like parish councils and not the fisheries. Animals, the farms duffer said, didn't recognise farm borders, even though if that were true there'd be no point building fences, but I knew what he meant, even if he didn't.

It's a bright green future ahead of us, just like in the picture, tyrannised by gobby nonentities, just like always.

TORY DEFRA, SINCERITY INC.
THE ENVIRONMENTAL CONSCIENCE OF THE NATION.

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