GOVELLER’S TRAVELS
Aug 24th
The author learns about Lilliprexit. He gains favour by his mild disposition.
I must confess I never beheld a more entertaining prospect. The miniature country, apart from the gridlocked lorries, pyres of dead livestock, boarded-up shops,
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Aug 24th
The author learns about Lilliprexit. He gains favour by his mild disposition.
I must confess I never beheld a more entertaining prospect. The miniature country, apart from the gridlocked lorries, pyres of dead livestock, boarded-up shops,
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closed public buildings, rioting citizens and ruthless troops quashing them, appeared like a continued garden. The deputy-emperor alighted from his mini-bar, the ‘Yurt Locker’ as his aides said, and surveyed me at beyond the length of my chain lest I stab him in the back.
No-deal had ground Lilliput to a halt and they had no medicine to treat an outbreak of Breximatosis nor enough workers willing to bring in the Monster Munch harvest, but still Boris ordered Eddie Stobart containers pushed to me, there being no fuel, of Arbroath Smokies,
Tunnocks Teacakes and deep-fried Mars Bar. For the better convenience of beholding the under-holidayed ruler I lay on my side so that our faces were parallel. His features were droopy with a muppet-like countenance, his complexion barren, deportment kyphotic,
limbs ill-proportioned, motions ungraceful and attire, that of a Last of The Summer Wine stunt-double for the runaway bath scene; it all spoke of a child who had never heard ‘no’, yet he reigned in great felicity and had done everything in his power to avoid the worst-case of
scenario no-deal Lilliprexit, except for some reason, asking for an extension. This was reported after, for I understood not a syllable he spoke at the time because he sounded like a St Bernard barking in Latin; and I retired to the door of my abandoned Airbus Factory to prevent
the malice of the growing rabble as I ate the last of their food. Ravaged by plague, recession, and the devasting aftermath of a nostalgia project that evoked wars none of them fought in and the music of Proms none of them went to, the mob were very impatient to shoot arrows at
me. The ringleader was apprehended and offered me by a six-inch Gavin Williamson with the butt-end of his pike, so I took him in my hand and made a countenance as if to eat him alive; but with Sarah’s latest WhatsApp telling me we were doing plant-based this week (and to
series-link Benefit’s Britain) I put him out of fear and set him on the ground gently, with both the soldiers and people highly delighted at this mark of my clemency. So I waited until he was out of their sight, and then stabbed him in the back.
1727
1727
