It was time to start the revolution so I put on my Slipknot t-shirt, headed into town, and spray painted the words ‘Class War’ on a bus shelter.
Lo and behold, next thing I knew, the working classes were out on the streets waving baseball bats and shovels. They were chanting the mantra ‘Class War! Class War! We never thought of that before!’ and headed uptown to where the richies live and control the media and all that type of thing.
Speaking of the media, I suddenly found myself surrounded by journalists and camera crews. They were all roaring questions at me:
‘Do you really think Class War is the solution?’
‘Are you prepared to take responsibility if someone gets hurt?’
‘Do you know where we can get some decent coke?’
I didn’t answer any of their questions. Instead, I pulled my t-shirt up over my lower face, flipped the camera the bird and shouted ‘OLD LADIES, WE’RE COMING FOR YOU!’
The old ladies thing worked a treat. It was on the news that night and all over the papers the next day. ‘Rioters Threaten Nice Old Ladies!’ No one minded when the law put the boot into the revolutionaries after that. Feeling betrayed, demoralised and quite ashamed, the multitudes that rose up the day before returned to their homes that evening. I was back in my flat long before them, taking a call from the secret service.
‘Well done Mr. Fugger, you’ve released the pressure valve. Has to be done from time to time. Should stop Joe and Jenny Pleb getting any fancy notions for a while. The cheque is in the post.’
I put the phone down, put my feet up and listened to my Angela Lansbury Reads the Poetry of Matthew Arnold CD, relaxing in the knowledge that I was on the winning side.
‘And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.’
Ah, . . .sweetness and light.
