Damned if i know. Tories spaff so many words into the wind it's hard to hear most of the time. The wind takes them away into the back o' beyond wherein lurk the restless natives in t'Shires, rustling the pages of the Mail and the Express in discontented alarum. Gather ye, round t'old village pond as the elder shaman tosses an old penny in to watch the ripples spread, gathering sage advice upon the sacred waters before pronouncing 'there will be no tax cuts this year!'
A communal sigh of relief and yearning for bygone days sussurates among them.
All is well within their world, once more.
Old Moore casts his runes upon ancient vellum to pronounce next years Almanac and senses a disturbance among the reeds: a Red Knight rises in the North, steely eyed and stern, bringing discontent into the Southern realm: forsooth! he has seen the wasteland wrought among the peasantry and they do stir in disgruntled ire. Off the rails they run amok, seeking sustenance amidst the desert brought upon them by pushers of pen and paper minions desecrating the sacred oath of office in their name. 'Nay!' they cry; 'thrice nay and damnation!'
The REd Knight swears to break through the Red Wall and release his subjects from bondage, feeling their desire for belief. They thirst for the healing mead of truth and justice to wash away the befouled waters surrounding them and seek it within the fragrance of a red rose, blooming o'er the land for all to enjoy.
They may befuddle us with de Piffle; they may torment us with mutton trussed up as lamb: Brexit meant Brexit and a future full of confusion and woe, but the North shall rise again, my friends....
....and so will your bloody taxes!
