The pilgrims had journeyed from afar to petition the mighty wizard of Brussels whose power raged unchallenged across the world. So great was his wisdom that everybody just called him The Wiz and some went so far as to say he really was a wiz of a wiz. If ever a wiz there was, that is.
Our pilgrims were a motley crew in strange outlandish garb and drew comment wherever they went. The tallest was a creature made of tin battered into a shape vaguely resembling a man. He had no heart, although he did have a big shiny dish of a face. The others called him Moron behind his back and Davidcam to his face and they didn’t much like him because he liked to pose as their leader.
The next was a man of straw, a real Worzel Gummidge. He was a scatter without a brain and with no functioning limbic system was apt to make random, haphazard movements and say things he didn’t really mean. He was the joker of the group and everybody just laughed and pointed when they saw him. His real name was Boris, but he answered to Scarecrow and everybody loved him except Davidcam, who read sinister meaning into every uncoordinated action.
Who’s that, hiding behind a tree, shadow boxing with himself? “Put ‘em up!” said Clegg the cowardly lion, every time Moron’s back was turned. Oh, it's just dear wee Clegg, the boy-man-lion who everybody loved dearly but nobody feared. His “Grrr” was more like a purr and nobody could take him seriously. It was rumoured that he had once led a political party but nobody who knew him would confirm it. All he really wanted was a nice cosy job working for the wizard. Soon Cleggy, soon.
And then there was Edorothy, who had come all the way from Kansington with her little dog, Herman, although because she had an adenoidal speech impediment, she pronounced it Harman. It was a snappy little thing and full of hate for all men, but dear Edorothy tolerated it more than anything else in the world. Edorothy just wanted what her father had wanted. And what had he wanted? Why, equality for all of course, at any price. When Edorothy told the others of her dreams they all laughed and laughed and laughed.
And then they set off, lickety-spit, on the yellow brick road to the magic city of Brussels, also known as the Emerald City, because its streets were paved with the crystallised snotty tears of once-free nations.
The Emerald City was a dull, dull place. It was quiet and orderly and clean and nice. It was expensive too; exclusive. And with none of that vivacious, loud and bright and frankly bloody annoying multiculturalism that everybody else had to pay for and put up with, law and order reigned. Just to be sure there were armed policemen on every street corner. The mighty wizard was a very cautious ruler and had many enemies, so he took security very seriously indeed.
The wizard’s palace was a stern and imposing building, reeking of money and power and it was rumoured that he had another one built, exactly the same, in Strasbourg, but nobody knew why – the wiz had many secrets. The four adventurers trembled as they mounted the steps. All those flags! But suddenly a blast of trumpets sounded a strident fanfare and the rumble and click of a mighty megaphone being switched on froze the four in their tracks.
“Stop!” boomed an imposing voice, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“We… we’ve come to see The Wizard,” stuttered Edorothy, “We want to ask him to give us a heart and a brain and courage. And Harman and I want to go home to Kansington.”
“Well you can just fuck off!”
“Are you the Wizard?” asked Edorothy, nervously.
“Yes!” boomed the Wizard again, “And you can all just fuck off!”
But now Edorothy’s dander was up and she took the steps three at a time and pushed open the enormous door to the palace. The others quickly followed her and with the doors closed behind them the amplified profanities that filled the air outside were but a muffled background noise. Over in the corner stood a wizened old man with an enormous head, spitting and snarling as he shouted into a microphone. He stopped when he saw the four.
“Get out!” he screamed “Get out!”
“Are YOU the Wizard?” repeated Edorothy incredulously, as Clegg hid behind the man of tin and Boris flung his arms round spasmodically and uselessly. “I don't want to be rude but, really, you have the charisma of a damp rag and the appearance of a low-grade bank clerk!”
“Not you as well!” said the Wizard, “This is a thousand dollar suit I’ll have you know!”
“You mean Euros, surely? A thousand Euro suit.” Piped up Davidcam.
The Wizard slowly stepped away from the microphone. His shoulders slumped and he addressed the four petitioners directly. “Dollars,” he said, “The Euro is finished.” He picked up a suitcase which stood nearby. “Kansington, is it?” he asked, “I have a Learjet standing by, you may as well come with me.”
As the five descended the palace steps a rumble shook the square and behind them the palace crumbled into dust and was gone. The European project was over and peace returned to the world.
Somewhere in Kansas a pretty girl in a blue gingham dress clicked her red heels together and woke up. “Bollocks!” she exclaimed. “It was just a bloody dream.”
Have a Happy Easter, dear reader and don't eat too much chocolate!
Kansington. I shall remember that moment of genius and smile.ReplyDelete
You really do have a way with words.ReplyDelete