A Festival Of Blight | Michael Johnson

At the end of another plague year in the sleepy backwater of Snorewood the last of the colour is slowing draining from the land. The humble villagers, gazing wistfully northwards as they munch hungrily on the leaf litter, (the last scrap of food in the local supermarket, a shrivelled mangle wurzel, having been nished days ago) can only dream of the yuletide celebrations at the home of their porky overlord; A. B. De Pfe er Johnson.

At his grease and favour dwelling, No. 10 Nose-Browning Street, the pink, sweaty little porker has the caterers running back and forth, lling the troughs for his donor guests to snout through, little gifts of PPE contracts scattered in each one. Overseeing the decorations, Jasper Cheese-Log is stretched out like a patient etherised on a table, shouting orders at his nanny. He looks like a scarecrow image of Lord Snooty; a straw man, but without enough stu ng. Errant member Sir Jabberwocky Crocks reads the order of the day, (moonlighting from his second job at £50 a word, charged to his constituents, if he can remember where they are). First come the games. They start with Pass The Parcel, each wrapper removed has written on it a scruple that must be dropped. At the centre is the prize of next year’s policies, but when the nal wrapper is undone there’s nothing inside. Next is the De Pfe er version of Musical Chairs, which works in reverse, as chairs are added one at a time, each one for a seat in the Lords. Needless to say, guests pay handsomely to play this game.

Little Pfe er decides it’s time for a quiz and the ministers all gather round for a game of Would I Lie To You. But it’s abandoned after one round as no one used the True button. The ministers try twenty questions, but this also fails as no one can answer simply yes or no. A brief disturbance occurs before the diners are at seated at the table. The question, ‘who’s going to carve up’ has so many volunteers a ght breaks out amongst the lower ranks.

Although the troughs are full, the tables over-laden, the presents under the tree obscene in their lavishness, there is a brief disturbance when a lowly backbencher timorously enquires whether there will be any food, light or heating left for the lowly peasants of Snorewood and beyond. ‘No Idea! Who cares!’ they bray back at him as he is dragged away to be racked and de-selected. Dishonourable member Despot Swine quickly pipes up that he knows a serial killer and a Nazi, either of whom might like to get in at the vacant constituency… Finally, when the revels have ended, little Pfe er holds his hands out as the guests leave. He wants his present. There is only one item on his Christmas list, his favourite cologne, Eau de Corruption by Cretin D’Or. He always follows the instruction on the label. He splashes it all over.