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  Monday 2nd October 2006  Politics   Powered by Yeast Logic
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Sobbing Rockallians bid farewell to Blair

'It's the end of an era'
by our political obituary correspondent

Rockall's normally-bustling streets were deserted last week as locals gathered around the island's only colour television set to watch Tony Blair's swansong speech to the Labour Party conference. A packed but strangely silent Fighting Dog and Pikey saw Rockallians fight for the best seats beneath the hostelry's 82-in plasma widescreen, eager for the chance to tell their grandchildren: "I was there."

Not a few tears were shed as an emotional Blair declared: "You're the future now, make the most of it." There was laughter, too, as our Tone made light of his wife's evident antipathy towards Gordon "Messiah" Brown with: "At least I don't have to worry about her sucking Gordo's fat spam javelin."

"It's the end of an era," admitted wholesale plumped chicken processor Davey Leveret, mournfully contemplating his foaming flagon of Olde Wifebeater. "I fear for democracy."

Energetically supping a Britannia fighting sherry, retired postmistress Edna Potato regaled an eager audience with her selected highlights of Blair's historic term at the helm of the SS Great Britain. "Two things stand out in my mind: when The Law Lords ruled that General Pinochet should be extradited to Spain and Jack Straw overruled them and sent him on his way with an apology and a signed photo of Margaret Thatcher; and when that nice John Prescott thumped the shite out of that Welshie. That's proper democracy for you."

"He wasn't Welsh, was he?" enquired Arthur "Chalky" Black from his usual spot beside the shove ha'penny board. "I though he was from Hull."

"No, you silly old bugger," interjected landlord Vince, ruefully polishing the Pikey's "Historic Third Term" commemorative yard of ale glass. "Prescott was born in Prestatyn."

"So he's actually Welsh too?" spluttered an amazed Potato. "And he seems like such a nice boy — very clean. Not like that Pinochet chap. Never trusted him. Eyes too close together."

"Yeah well he's Chilean, inne?" offered a spotty youth throwing a week's paypacket into the "Grinning Gordo's Ladder of Ambition" fruitie. "Me dad told that in 1973 a Chilean haddock definning ship put into Rockall and within an hour the crew had got pissed and rounded up all the locals and herded them into the Dynamo Rockall stadium at gunpoint."

"That's right," confirmed local bookshop owner Winston Kenyatta Simba — aka "Brian". "They threw old Robin Chewcastle out of a helicopter into the Atlantic because of his Communist connections. Everyone thought he was just an simple-minded goatherd but he was in fact a highly-trained commissar in Beria's NKVD tasked with monitoring UK missile tests from St Kilda."

"You're joking," ejaculated Davey Leveret, enthusiastically attacking his seventh pint of Wifebeater. "So that's why he spent so much time on Hall's Ledge with a pair of binoculars. And I though he was just trying to cop an eyeful of Janice Leatherbottom going about her ablutions."

"The Janice Leatherbottom who lived in Black Turbot Lane?" asked "Chalky" Black. "She had a international class pair of chest bollocks as I recall, and she didn't care who knew it."

"Oi," shouted Vince, "Watch your language. Ladies present."

"It's true," sighed Potato. "Her mams were truly a sight to behold. I often thought to myself: 'If I had a pair of jugs like that I'd blow this town and make my fortune in the big city.' Sadly, my assets only got me as far as the chorusline of the Glasgow dockside Moulin McRouge."

"Yeah, I heard about Janice Leatherbottom," said our fruitie-loving whippersnapper as he approached the "Keys to Number 10" triple-spin superbonus. "Me dad told me that for a tanner she'd let you suck her tits for three minutes. You could crack one off on 'em for half-a-crown and a basket of guillemot guano."

"That was before my time," admitted Vince while lovingly dusting off his Tone and Cherie "Things can only get better" heritage collectible plate. "Whatever happened to her, anyway?"

"She got a job as John Prescott's personal secretary," informed Simba. "I gather he was very impressed with her shorthand technique."

"Who the fuc*k's John Prescott?" asked the spotty youth, disengaging himself from the fruitie with the bounty harvested from the "Historic Fourth Term" jackpot to request immediate delivery of a WTF? puccine-laced alcopop. "And while we're about it, who the fuc*k is Tony Blair and what the fuc*k has he got to do with the price of Nike trainers, eh?"

Previously

 Go on then, hard man