Ubu, the king of misrule is squeaking once more in his unusually high-pitched voice with the result that nobody pays him any attention. But he is there, perched on his rather rackety stool, clad in glorious robes of mistake, reminding us that the best sort of majestic ruler is the one that we can safely ignore but nonetheless remains at his post, or her post I think should be added to the possibilities of anti-rule. Our king of ridicule sits, putting on a glower of smouldering condescension, picking his nose and squirming in a way that is quite frankly disgusting.
He would like to take himself seriously but is congenitally unable to do any such thing as he views life as a huge comedy, probably of infinitely complex errors. Bloated as he is he would still like to emulate Pinky Cameron nobly astride a retired police horse. Ubu envies what he sees as Cameron’s power. He thinks that when Cameron speaks people listen and listening to Cameron is bad for everybody’s health so that, in turn, would be good for his royal self. Has there ever been such an inept bunch of wannabees pretending to be a government. There is only one line that they can manage to sing: hand it over to my friends in the private sector [and increase the range of extravagant poverties available to all who were not born with the gold spoon shoved with haste and vigour into their drooling gobs].
Of course we should all be entrepreneurs and don’t get me wrong I would be if I could be: if only I could arouse some elements of interest in it but my mind swerves away on to something more interesting which could be almost anything at all. The thing is my mind has been corrupted by my early years of post-war social democracy and the fact is I have, one way or another, managed to survive these years of free market madness – an ideology, a potent virus, that has taken deep root in the bones of the movers and shakers in an orgy of me-too hysteria.
Ubu is banging on his tambourine, endeavouring to stretch his atrophied arm up towards the misty heavens and giving it little shakes and despite his pathetic efforts he has managed to capture our attention.
‘What is it, your majesty?’
‘Listen to me,’ he squeaks.
‘We are listening, sire.’
‘It is time for war, where is my army.’
‘We privatised them, sire. They are currently protecting the banks from angry mobs.’
He is up and off his stool and screaming in purple-faced rage. My God, he’s angry. Watch our or he’ll catch you with that mace that he insists on carrying.
Just keep our of his way, it doesn’t usually last too long.
Ah yes, here comes the collapse:
‘Oh I think it must be time for my medicine.’
‘Indeed it is, indeed it is. Which bit of your majestic self shall I stick it in?’