Born 1964, (Liverpool, England) difficult birth, didn't find my voice until my youth. Years of thinking I was nobody and treated as such. However, hit the paper papering over the scars. Found understanding and belief through words. I have been published and performed widely from the BBC, The Tate, galleries and pubs and everything in between.
My poems are autobiographical, others topical and several my take on life. Hope you enjoy reading as much as I have enjoyed writing. Please feel free to share your thoughts on the links below.
Contact: David R Mellor email@example.com
(Facebook) The Poetry of David R. Mellor
(Twitter) “olunikat” The Poetry of David R. Mellor
Getting Cameron by David R Mellor
A Short Political Satire
(Any resemblance to Mr. Cameron of 12 Matt Drive Gillingham, David Cameron of 10 upshitscreek Wolverhampton purely coincidental or the guy in the photo whoever he is.)
Meet the cast (so far):
Colin fuck knows what he does lovely plants in his loft gets by Rob on zero hrs contract at Picknose meat factory foods (Hartlepool) does about 5hrs a week
Allan worked for local authority until typed escort agency in search engine.
Civil Servant, “Dear PM, we have to celebrate what Zero hrs contracts have done to boost economy in the north of England sending out business mails is that ok?”
Mr. Cameron, “But they fuckin hate us.”
Civil Servant, “Exactly.”
Last but most of all “least” Brian and Tony
Brian had benefits appointment at 9 am, didn't make it. “I can’t use cheap bus ticket then to expensive peak hrs.” Outcome - 3 week benefits sanction.
Tony - The star of the team unsung, quite wants to change the world, occupation revolutionary in his toilet.
They are all laid before you.
The Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W. B. Yeats
All five are still in bed, nothing to get for, except Mr Cameron
Mr Reg ula Arseliqueur (senior) Civil Servant
“Prime minister, sorry to disturb you.”
“We’ve landed a plum; I have found the perfect Zero Hours business in the North, Picknose Meat factory foods Hartlepool.”
“Somewhere up north the usual poor place.”
“Ok, fire away.”
“Well…” Civil servant tapping his foot, jumping around.
“They only employ zero hour workers, hundreds of them, ranging from one hr to 70 hrs a week, would you believe it they queue outside in the morning and the boss picks the fittest and their shares are doing well.”
PM “Are the workers happy?”
“Look.” PM thrusts picture in civil servant’s face.
“During the election campaign the workers looked miserable seeing me, some even walking away.”
“That won’t happen here, I can assure.”
PM, “Any bad press for this company?”
“Not really, some allegation by a disgruntled worker quickly withdrawn after quiet word with manager of a sheep’s head floating around in the vat, cigarette papers in the pies, oh and a budgie discovered in breadcrumbs, ridiculous.”
“Are you sure this is fine?”
“Ok, phone them and set a date Arseliqueur for my visit, oh and btw please bring plenty of antibacterial gel in case any Northerners touch me.”
Time’s ticking… Time to put some flesh on it.
“Yes Arseliqueur.” (senior civil servant)
“Your visit to Picknose Meat factory foods Hartlepool will take place next week.”
“Excellent, oh did you tell the manager the workers must smile behind me?”
“It's all sorted, the worker who looks most pleased to see you, will be given an extra five hrs work for the following week, those who don’t will have their contracts ripped up.”
PM with a grin, “They can’t have them ripped up as they don’t have any.” Collective laughter. “I do love working for you Mr Prime Minister.”
Mr. Cameron starts pacing the room...
“Right, when you think of “The North” what do you think? I’ll tell you what you think. Poverty, pasties, foodbanks, people who can’t talk properly, fat people, lads in jogging trousers, dangerous dogs, Poundland, no shops, unemployment .”
Cameron captures an image of himself in the mirror, hands outstretched at ease, he smiles at the mirror. “Crime, flat caps, rain, dirt, public transport.” He is sure pumped up.
“Now what do you think of when you think of the South of England? I'll tell you.” Looks with steely face at the mirror. “You think of me, John Osborne, Kate Winslett, Prince Harry, Buckingham Palace, fields, healthy faces, period dramas with Keira Knightley.” Looks up at the ceiling with bleary-eyed wonder.
“I tell you…” Stares with honest eyes into the mirror. “It is grim up north, that’s why we are rebranding the North ‘The South of England.’”
“What? So there’s Scotland ... then, urm… South of England.”
“Yes, positive, dynamic, forward thinking, it’s only at the planning stage yet but I will hint at the changes when I visit the factory... I think I should put may face on the new £20 note.” His eyes go watery. “I love the South of England.”
“I will outline the details tomorrow."
Leaked memo Hartlepool to become a landfill site.
“Prime Minister, I’ve just been handed this document, it states, Mr Cameron...?” Mr Cameron is pacing around his deck. “This is it!” He has a glass of wine in his hand, empty bottles on the floor, cigarette ash all over his desk. ”LOOK, now they will get me.” His suit is dishevelled, his blue shirt buttons down. On the desk is a white sheet with the UK mapped out, lines drawn all over it. “It states that a Facebook status update purportedly by yourself, ridiculous, saying you plan to turn Hartlepool into landfill site.” Wry smile.
“Look Arseliqueur, urm, yes, I might have sent that out or was it a Tweet, can’t remember.” “And you had boxes of wine brought to Downing Street, that’s in the papers.” “Yes, mm, it’s lovely.” His eyes are bloodshot, sweat dripping of his face. As he leans over the map, he sees his face in the mirror, smiles. “I look like a general and this is the war map.” A little chuckle which almost appears sinister.
“Ok, the battle ground.” Smug grin. “The North of England is not full so we push them down. Gestures with his hands. “We will squeeze them further south, cram them in, possibly as far down as Nottingham, and then,” his body is shaking, “we turn the whole of the North East into a European landfill site, more money for the NEW South of England and tax cuts.” That smile again. “And the Yorkshire Dales we will use for all Asylum Seekers and Refugees, there’s plenty of water and well, looks a little bit like Syria, but colder.” Little chuckle to the mirror. “Merseyside,” his face is beaming, “will become a global nuclear waste dumping ground, I might even divert all the UK's sewerage into the Mersey. Margaret (Thatcher) would be so proud of me.” Touches her portrait.
“You look tired Prime Minister.” He leans back in his chair, he’s starting to fall asleep. “Trees.... South... England… Eton… Polo... fox hunting... oooooh.”
David Cameron is twitching in his sleep the red wine all over his shirt. “I have a vision, build, stronger, powerful, control me... I’m gay... No I’m not, church pray, pray, pray.”
In Hartlepool is someone planning to kill him?
Hartlepool Mail, anonymous death threat to Cameron received.
“Are you feeling any better Prime Minister?” Cameron does appear a little more at ease, the usual suit, blue shirt, slick hair, undertaker look. “I’m glad you’re drinking water Prime Minister, very good for you.” “It’s gin, actually.” Cameron stands in front of the full length mirror, one hand in his pocket. Arseliqueur notices that more mirrors have been put up. “How quickly can you mobilise all civil servants, doing one task, and bring the majority of our armed forces back?” “If needs be, a matter of days I presume.” “What about any possible commons rebellions, have we got any Tory MPs in the north?” “No Mr Cameron.” “And Scotland?” “No again.”
Cameron gazes at the portrait of Thatcher, Arseliqueur notices that there is lipstick on her mouth as if someone has been kissing it. “These are dark times but we as a national, mobilised, determined, forward thinking…” (Arseliqueur has switched off.) “Later today I will announce the plans in the House of Commons, make sure it is broadcasted simultaneously on all TV and radio stations…”
Colin wakes up with a feeling of dread, he’s done something awful, he checks Facebook, no inappropriate updates, checks mobile, no naked pics of himself sent to his mother by mistake. He gazes at the phone, oh no, the 4am phone call to the Hartlepool Mail, threatening to kill Cameron is clear as day in contrast to the dark Hartlepool skies seen from his flat window. Shit, shit. I’ll say it wasn’t me, I was burgled, my brother, I was forced to. He sits down like a condemned man, rolls a cigarette and waits for the boys to come round.
1pm, Flat in Hartlepool…
“Fuck them,” “Hi.” “Colin, it’s starting, last night.” Tony enters, thin, gaunt and hair like wire. “I posted on Facebook and Twitter fuck you Tories and posted a poem on my page called…” “Let me guess, Fuck you Tories.” Thrusts poem into Colin's hand. “It just says fuck you Tories and Cameron remark and commas.” “You see the commas add to the thrust.” “Besides yourself, how many followers have you on your page?” “Trust you to be negative, they can’t like as it would be dangerous.” He’s not got bi-polar, just three sheets to the wind, but his heart is in the right place. “Get us black coffee and a rollie.” Takes his position in far left seat, Colin always in the middle of the Star Trek Fleet.
“Can u lend us 60 quid till tonight?” “Brian, you’ve had your benefits stopped.” “I know but I’ve invested my last £1.48 (the accuracy is frightening) on a racing accumulator that brings in.” (Refers to betting slip like it’s the word of the lord.) “It states here £75.20.” “Brian have you opened any of your letters or listened your phone messages?” “No, why, it’ll be bad news.” “Face up to...” He takes his seat next to Tony.
“I’m fucked.” “Hi Allan.” “One fuckin mistake, well, 10.” He’s back from his umpteenth interview. “They asked again your last employer states you googled Escort agency, is that true?” “Yes, I was after a car…” “And also bum, tit, twat.” “They were spelling mistakes.” They look. “I love women, no, not it a pervy way…” (The hole is getting deeper.) “Look, I’m married.” “Are you?” Their faces beam. “YES, but divorced 4 times, let me explain…”
Rob is smiling like a Cheshire cat. “Are you happy Rob?” “Do I look it?” “Urm, yes.” Rob never smiles. Managers (Picknose Meat factory foods Hartlepool) said those who look most happy when Cameron visits will get a money bonus; he is smiling like a Buddhist.
Colin sits in the middle of the starship (no) enterprise and flicks the TV on.
We now go over live to the House of Commons for an emergency statement...
10 am, Downing Street
“This is an important day Arseliqueur.” The PM is immaculately dressed with a champagne glass in his hand.
“I know Prime Minister.”
“I so do have the common touch Arseliqueur.” He lightly touches his cheek. “Yes, Prime Minister.” Feeling slightly overwhelmed. Arseliqueur notices that there is something sticky over the portrait of Thatcher and lipstick on the lips of portraits of the Queen and Winston Churchill.
He appears bold and confident today.
“Ok, let’s pop into the Big Brother house, then off for the commons statement. Let’s shake it up a bit, be bold, and think out of the box.” (Arseliqueur can see that look again, as if angels are calling him.) “Reach out to my people who I love so much all together in the South of England.” He’s looking at the mirrors again, capturing every gesture. “If you insist Prime Minister.” “Ok, make the arrangement and let’s go.”
At the Big Brother house, Valerie Slapper is holding centre stage. For the last 5 days the contestants have been talking constantly about sex. “So what has been the most outrages thing you’ve done?” “Well.” Nick Nobody, gay, bi-curious transsexual. “I was talking to my mother whilst my boyfriend was, you know, under the table. “ The house mates love this, almost foaming at the mouth. Then Barbra Blubber bursts into tears. “I thought he wanted me, but last night I saw Chris Coont shagging Valerie Slapper.” Queue all house mates standing up like peacocks, parading to the camera. “What the fuck,” “OMG,” Each day someone is doing something to somebody or even toilet holders or melons, resulting in this being the most viewed series of all time. The one glitch being when Brian was sanctioned for mentioning books.
Would all contestants please go into the lounge? Queue panic to get makeup on, push up bras. “Can you see my tits in this?” “Oh, can you see my bulge?”
David Cameron stands at the top of the stairs, waves to, well, nobody and enters the house.
“OMG it’s Colin Firth.” “No, it’s the singer from Spandau Ballet.” Cameron takes his seat with his people. “Wait, wait, I know.” Nick Nobody is camping up. “It's the president.” “Yes, I Am.” “Of god, urm USA.” The Prime Minister has gone ashen grey. “No, I’m actually your prime minster you thick bastards… Who here is from the north?” Half the people put hands up. “Well, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you Northern Scum....” “Would David Cameron please come to the diary room?”
“Mr. Cameron, Big Brother will not tolerate foul language and you didn’t talk about sex either, I’m afraid you will have to leave.” “Where are you from? “ “Newcastle.” Cameron gives a little chuckle as he leaves the house.
3pm, House of Commons
“The Prime Minister.” The speaker of the House of Commons introduces the PM. He goes to the dispatch box as if he is Nelson admiring his fleet.
“Britain is great... I, urm, we, have built this great country, land that we walk upon.” He turns to his MPs, he’s emboldened. “But we've had difficult days ahead.” The hall appears dark as if by magic. “We, I, have pulled us out.” A sun beam appears through the window as if god is anointing him. “We have to go further.” The ships are sailing in the distance. “We need a rebrand, up there…” He can hardly bring himself to say it. “In the NORTH.” He feels a bit sick saying it.
“What do you think of when you say the North? Poverty, unemployment, food banks, dirt, public transport, flat caps and strange English. Now what do you feel when you say SOUTH?” There is almost a tear in his eyes. “Wealth, clean, dynamic, royalty.” “And you, you posh twat!” Labour interrupts. “Yes, me.” He’s missed the last bit.
“As of midnight tonight, the whole of England will now be called the South of England. Every person, up there, will be provided with a house in the New South of England. As a thank you for their understanding, each adult will be provided with a booze voucher, we know how much they like to drink. In poor areas it will be extra strength cider, more traditional areas beer, and those that have a bit more cheap wine.” The Labour benches are stunned, drowned out by wild Tory cheers.
“Now in these empty areas we are going to build a power house. As I’m speaking now, there are masses of boats from Libya carrying immigrants to our shore.” This is not true but who cares. “They are foreign, dirty and certainly not Christian, they will be put in the Yorkshire Dales, fenced in and all asylum seekers and those people who are undesirable will join them. This will cost the British tax payer nothing and they will eventually be able to grow their own food and the fresh air will do them good… Secondly...”
The noise from the Tory back benches is deafening. One turns to a colleague and whispers, “Maybe I can have my own Northern slave or as a pet dog feeding it pies.” Wild laughter.
“Secondly you may have heard that Hartlepool is to become a landfill site, this is preposterous.” Groans from back benches. “Why not the entire northeast?” Wild cheers. Cameron beams like a Cheshire cat and looks about 20.
“We need dynamism, investment; we will become a super power again.” There is a strange glint in his eyes when he says this, which doesn’t go unnoticed. “The North East will become a European landfill site bringing millions to our country.”
“And thirdly…” The Tories are getting so excited that a few have clearly wet themselves. “Merseyside.” He grits his teeth, he’s almost jumping up and down like a school boy. “Will now become a nuclear waste dumping ground. As we speak, the USA is shipping waste to the Mersey; the contract is worth millions again.” He’s twitching, has he wet himself, checks, no he hasn’t. “This is just the start, and finally two points, as no one will now be living in the north, no need for MPs, as of 12 midnight all Northern MPs will be asked to leave the house.”
“This is madness!” cries one Labour MPs. Cameron just stares at him.
“And finally the most import issue.” A wry smile. “Football. As you know I support Aston Rovers... Urm, West Ham City. We are going to build great teams with squads of 76. Europe is ours, for example Liverpool and Manchester United will join with Chelsea to be now called a new name, FC Chelsea.” Wild cheers.
He is sweating, laughing, almost dancing. “We all need to pull together thousands of troops which will assist in helping people to move down to the new dynamic South of England.” He sits down and starts to hear angels through the wild applause of his MPs.
MEDIA REACTION... (The days that follow)
“LET THEM EAT GRASS” Headline in The Sun
Under it is a picture of an asylum seeker family entering the Yorkshire Dales (completely fenced in). They are provided with a tent handed some seeds to grow food and that’s it.
“FROM GLOOM TO BOOM” The Daily Star
A joyous Northern family (well, former) are pictured entering their new house in the now named “South of England.” In the small print it does say that it may take a while to house all (former) Northerns, and apologies that many are still in makeshift tents around north of the Midlands.
The Daily Mail leads with a hilarious story of a crowd of “Northern” people in Manchester who refused to leave. A plane was used to drop Bargain Booze vouchers over them; in no time at all they cashed them in, got completely wasted, and were then herded onto coaches to the border of the new South of England.
Mr Cameron is clearly purring over such stories as he sits in his office like a little fat Cheshire cat staring also at new portrait of himself, strangely also covered in kisses. “Ah the Financial Times,” he mutters to himself.
“South of England to Become the Richest Nation in Less than a Year.” This is a projection on financial deals done over the last few days. He gazes at his portrait. “I do look a little bit like Napoleon?”
He has agreed to appear on the Andrew Neil politics show at the weekend. He has offered to let him stay at his luxurious villa in France; Andrew Neil has gladly accepted, mailing, “It will be plain sailing for you in the interview, your humble servant Andrew.” Cameron kisses the mirror. “God you’re brilliant.” He is slightly troubled tho. He has a 95% approval rate in the country. ”But can I risk unleashing the second stage? I think I will hint of plans... Mmm...”
By the way there has been no edition of the left leaning Daily Mirror, no explanation has been given and the offices are boarded up.
But who cares? No one! Everything is rosy.
The Andrew Neil Show
“Today’s show is dedicated to one man, The Man of the moment, David Cameron.”
David Cameron sits there like a little school boy. When he thinks about himself he gets an erection.
“I’ve got the Financial Times in front me; have you seen the headlines Prime Minister?”
“Yes, I have.” He twitches and notices he may have ejaculated a bit.
“In ONE year, if business keeps at its current levels the South of England will be the largest economy on this planet.”
Mr Cameron looks like he just been voted school boy of the year. “It’s all down to me... urm, us, even you Andrew.” The audience laugh out loud, they so love him.
“Listen, we all moved swiftly and dynamically, the people up there came to the New South of England. They could smell the coffee and they lapped it up.”
There had been rumours circulated to The Guardian newspaper that the army had opened fire on some disgruntled northerners, killing and maiming many. The editor was invited to be on the Andrew Neil show but has not turned up. No paper was printed today, and the Guardians headquarters are also boarded up.
“Even today I have signed 5 contracts allowing American fracking companies to start exploring straight away up there, now that’s Fracking good.” Wild applause and laughter.
“Today Andrew, I'll give you and every member of the audience money.” The audience look stunned, he is Jesus performing miracles.
Back to his stern look. “If you earn over 35.000 a year you will, from today, pay no tax on your income.” The audience gasps, Andrew takes his glasses of swirls them in his hand and smiles at The South of England’s new god.
“This means we can now do away with the NHS. You have money now to get and pay for you treatment when and where you want.” The audience start clapping, but feel a bit odd cheering the dismantling of The NHS, but what the hell he knows best and everything he is touching is turning to gold.
“Listen,” Andrew Neil interrupts. “For the first time I’m extending the show, so if you’re waiting to see ‘Northern scum’ a history of that now failed area it will follow this, see you after the break.”
The Andrew Neil Show (Part 2)
Cameron appears distracted; he’s weighing things up, thinking on his feet. He looks at the audience pensively.
“May I put this to you prime minister, this feels like the dawning of a golden age, almost like Queen Victoria’s times.”
Cameron is tapping his feet like a little child at an ice cream van. “Yes, yes, I see what you mean.” Cameron appears giddy, then composes himself.
“But there are dark forces out there.” His eyes appear bloodshot. You could hear a pin drop in the audience.
“The French Prime minister has recently called the South of England people scum.”
“Fuck them, French Frog bastards, get them Cameron!” The audience are shouting out with venom, standing and pointing.
“And furthermore a young English boy was stabbed on the Paris metro, for speaking English.”
None of these events are true, but since the growth of UKIP language, what was until recently seen as racist and derogatory is the norm. If an Asian person is spat at in the street the police reaction is usually “Go back to where you came from.”
“Wait…” Like Moses parting the waves there is a sudden quiet. “Many nations don’t like what we are doing, they are jealous.” The audience’s heads bob up down like the waves. “I will of course be raising the issues with the French Prime Minister. But I have reports of something even more disturbing. We are being infiltrated by French agitators who are mingling with northerners on the border. I’m sorry to announce that their planned move to their lovely South of England will need to be delayed whilst we flush them out.”
“Just shoot the bastards!” shouts out a member of the audience. The audience laugh; there is little care for the Northerners. Cameron gives a soft smile and thinks, I’m already doing that.
“Well, that’s all we’ve got time for, give a big hand to our Prime Minister.” He receives a standing ovation which almost raises the roof of the building.
“The South of England’s got the X Factor, the Future, YOU DECIDE.”
Now that the Northern MPs have gone and the SNP has moved back to Scotland, the House of Commons has become a desert, only used to get the cheap booze and play mock speeches. “Come on Boris (Johnson), it’s your turn to be opposition leader.” It’s just like they were back at public school.
Tory supporter Simon Cowell has agreed to run a show, in which a number of new policies are judged and voted on, naturally the music is provided by tax avoider and fellow Tory, Gary Barlow, hosted by those cheeky chappies Ant and Dec also, you guessed it, Tory supporters.
The show starts... enter Ant and Dec.
“We used to be Northerners, not anymore.” Howls of laughter. “What a show we have for you tonight. You can decide on two polices and we’ve got a brand new policy statement as well.” Wild stamping of feet and the sound of crisps and wine bottles opening at home.
“Right this is how it goes, the Prime minister, our very own David Cameron will pose a question then whilst the music’s on you decide our fate.” Note there are now differing views to be aired.
“And here he is the man of the moment, Mr David Cameron.” Cue fireworks, flashing lights, and multiple image of him projected on to screens.
“Ok countrymen, let’s have the referendum now, no boring ballot boxes, just here and now!” bellows Cameron.
A viewer back home says, “What great TV,” to his family, smiles and nods from even the smallest family members.
“As you can see from the French reaction, we are hated by Europe.” “Fuckem!” a member of the audience shouts out. “Well, yes exactly, look at us.” Spotlight pans the pure white audience. “Look at us. Strong, Rich, Powerful. We can do it alone, let’s get out of the European Union now.”
Cues Gary Barlow and the rest of Take That singing “Rule the World.”
Ant and Dec appear after. “Ok the results are in, and we can now announce that you the people of the South of England have decided… Back after the break.” Collective groans.
Back to the show YOU’VE DECIDED
“OK, the votes are in, and we can now announce that the New South of England has…“ Cue endless ticking off the clock. “… decided to.... Leave the European Union.” Cue red white and blue bunting covering the stage, Ant and Dec and Gary Barlow rush to hug David Cameron, cue yet again “Rule the World,” audience on its feet.
“What a night, what a country,” beams the PM, “what’s next? “ Beam the little midgets. One gets the impression the cannibalisation of foreigners would get a vote tonight. “What are your values?” “English!” screams the audience. “Who can tell you what to do?” “No one!” “Can foreigners tell you what to do?” “NO!” scream back the audience, lapping it up. “Who can?” “We can!” They’re in the palm of his hand. “We know our values,” cue Rule Britannia, “William Blake, the Queen, Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher.” There is almost an erection of national pride. “Let’s scrape the European convention on Human Rights.” “Fuckem!” screams a member of audience again. “So, David Cameron asks you to vote to scrape the treaty, you decide.” Cue images of Shakespeare, Churchill, Dunkirk landing, Margaret Thatcher waving.
Ant and Dec, “OK so the vote is ticking from a land line, vote out costs 20p, stay in costs 20 pounds, you decide.” Cue choir “And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England’s mountain green.”
“Ok the votes are in.”... endless ticking… “You have decided… To leave The European convention on Human Rights!” Wild cheers and fist pumping. “Yes yes yes.”
“What a night, anything more prime minister?” Ant and Dec are frothing at the mouth.” “Are you rich?” “Yes!” screams the audience. “Do you hate scroungers?” “Yes scum, get a job!” Oh they are loving this. “OK, OK.” Deafening noise. “From midnight tonight, all benefits are to be scrapped.” Cue Rule Britannia again, ending with the newly reformed WHAM singing a new song dedicated to David Cameron.
“Club David Cameron, Drinks are free.”
The Landscape… (Part 1)
An unmanned drone is flying over what was “The United” kingdom, operated by yours truly David Cameron. He’s a bit drunk so the plane hovers sometimes to close the ground, other times on the edge of space. “Wooooow!” he chuckles.
Over Scotland all is as it was, they gave them independence. All the talk by Nicola Sturgeon (SNP) of “We care how the government’s austerity is hurting all of us,” was just rubbish. Hadrian’s Wall was built on and that was that.
Flying over the North always gets him excited, his pants are already very sticky. It is like looking at Dante’s Hell, mirroring Cameron's now bloodshot eyes. The North East is covered in what appears are hills, in fact they are rubbish mounds. “I’ve always thought they were rubbish.” Cameron laughs out loud.
Veering off to the Yorkshire dales he can see the Asylum seekers starting to gather in crops. “I was too generous to them.” He tuts. There are also people in suits, notebooks in hand, he notices the owners of The Guardian and Daily Mirror amongst them.
In between these areas he sees flames shooting up into the sky. Fracking is well under way. Merseyside glows like a Christmas tree with all the nuclear waste. He’s laughing so hard he’s almost crying. “Margaret would have been so proud of me.” And starts to fondle her portrait.
As he swings to the border of New South of England there is what appears to be a thick black line. Moving in closer he sees tents full of Northerners, the French infiltrators have been removed. He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. Those with foreign sounding names were “taken out” leaving the rest fearful and downtrodden. He realises, however, he has to offer them something to keep them in line, and is pondering his next move.
The plane almost hits a northerner’s head. “Shit shit, whew, oh what the hell, there’s nothing much inside their brains anyway.”
The Landscape... (Part 2)
Before he hovers over the beautiful South of England, he glances over at Wales. He gave them independence as well, even though they didn’t want it. “What the hell would I want a country of sheep and hills for?” He chuckles and then he slows the drone down over the South of England. Looks up, and he’s sure he can hear angels... Beautiful new houses have been built, parks, gardens, theatres. “Ahh the land of milk and honey.”
He didn’t really have any planners for Northerners to move here and spoil it. His task was made easier following the one northern family that was relocated. House prices in the area fell, and shop signs saying no Northerners allowed sprung up all over the area. But with the working week now down to 30 hrs the dirty jobs still need to be done. So with no human rights acts or benefits, Northerners were bussed in, paid a few quid on the day, then returned to their settlement. “They’re a bit like Palestinians.” He chuckles.
In London they faced the most prejudice. Nigel Farage (UKIP) was handed the role as Lord Mayor. Shop signs now read “No Blacks, Asians, or Northerners.” Speaking foreign on a bus resulted in immediate arrest and moved to Yorkshire Dales detention centre. Any people who refused to work, or the lazy disabled were housed in a building called “Beedlam” with the insane, and provided much loved entertainment at weekends for the good people of South of England who would visit this human zoo.
David Cameron sat back in his chair, drank more whisky. “Ahh job done.” But something was niggling, why can’t the entire world be like us! And he knew the natives were getting restless. Constant abuse towards the South of England (all lies of course) had resulted in people almost frothing at the mouth to take action against these foreigners.
“But how can I attack The French (his pet hate) without the rest, especially European Union countries coming to their aid? I will have to sleep on that.” And so he drifts off talking in his sleep. “Oh Margaret spank me again, I’m a naughty boy... Napoleon, Nelson, Churchill, mmmmm.”
Prime Minister’s office...
“Arseliqueur, what did Northerners used to like?” He poses the question to the head civil servant, and then answers himself. He has little knowledge of them, and talks as if they are extinct creatures. “Smoking, drinking and playing the lottery. Well, let’s kill two birds with one stone.” Those eyes again. Arseliqueur looks puzzled. “Let’s give them what they want.” He’s chuckling like a hyena, sleeves rolled up looking like action man. “Each Northerner will get a free lottery ticket and win a luxury trip on a cruise ship to live in Australia. 700 lucky winners.” “That’s very generous of you Prime Minister.” He had no idea David Cameron had a heart. “Then the French will kill them.” He’s looking up with bloodshot eyes, sweat pouring from him, vodka glass in hand. “One slight problem Prime Minister.” “Yes, yes, what!” He looks like a tiny demon. “Why would the French do this?” “They don’t, we do.” He stands up and strokes Margaret’s hand. Arseliquer gazes at Satan’s child. “We murder 700 people Prime Minister?” “Look at the bigger picture Arseliquer, we will get the sympathy of the whole world, then we march into Paris.” He strokes Churchill’s face. “But won’t they realise we did it?” “No.” Are his ears looking like horns? “I will be remotely controlling a submarine and then boom. Ok, let’s get packing and announce the good news to those heathens.”
Within an hour they are on the way to the border, Cameron’s Pope like mobile ready with bullet proof glass.
He greets the Northern masses. “Listen, I have great news.” “You twat!” screams one in the crowd, bricks and bottles rain down on the mobile. “Wait, wait. You have paid the ultimate sacrifice and we feel your pain.” More screams of abuse. “You like smoking, drinking but there’s something else you miss. In the past you would queue for hours for this. The Lottery.” A strange hush descends on the crowd. “Yes, I do miss that,” mutters one in the crowd. “Well, it’s back with 700 winners.” There’s a muted applause. “Each and every one of you will be given a free lottery ticket today.” Like lunatics who have had a frontal lobotomy they nod their heads. “And 700 of you will win a trip on a luxury liner going to your new house in Australia.” There are gasps in the crowd followed by wild cheers.
Arseliquer looks and stares at the crowd, who of these people’s faces will be bobbing up and down in the sea.
Arseliquer (senior civil servant) has joined the Prime Minister on the White Cliffs of Dover. “Look at this, weeeeeeeee, up periscope, peek-a-boo, down periscope.” Cameron is playing with his remote controlled submarine armed to the hilt. He’s bent over double, at times laughing, other times sitting like the little public school boy that he is, then one is sure his ears are growing thorns, his neck appears red and his eyes are bloodshot . “The Northerners, Arseliquer, are they on the boat?” “Yes Prime Minister. It set off on time and it’s on its way, the children in particular appeared very happy.” He says this in numb almost sad tone. “Ah, jolly good, pip pip and all that.”
Arseliquer steps back, adjusts his collar. “You are dangerous.” “Really?” Cameron is beaming all those days of wanking over Thatcher; it was he who he loved. “Really am I marvellous.” This fiendish creature only hears what he wants to hear. “My friend, I couldn’t have done it without you.” There is a deep sigh. “I know.”
“I can see it.” He jumps up and down like a little child, he puts the submarine into position, grits his teeth and waits.
“Arseliquer is that weapons I can see in their hands?” “No Prime Minister, they are waving at you, you did say you would wave them off.” “Yes, that’s true.” And he raises his royal hand.
Then out of the blue, his submarine takes a direct hit from the ship and sinks. “What’s happening?” The missile is aimed at them, hitting just below where they are standing on the rocks and they fall to their death. The last sound is “Why!” from the demon.
Arseliquer was going to push him over the cliff, but it was he that had carried out his orders, the deaths, the misery, so he had to go as well.
“What a show we have tonight!” beam Ant and Dec. “The North (new name for all of England) have let you decide live from Gateshead.”
“Who gets hanged you decide. If you want it to be Nigel Farage phone 0941 200 and add 1. If you want it to be Boris Johnson, dial 0941 22 and add 2. Calls cost nothing.”