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Wednesday, 30 June 2010

Hello, fellow anarchists! You'll find these thoughts of mine simple and to the point. No waffle. We anarchists hate wafflers. We anarchists hate everything, but we hate wafflers most of all. So stay with me and be entertained by the utter ravings of a gay, middle-class, part-time anarchist! My name is Guy Forkes and I always like to joke that my name can cause fireworks. Ha! Ha! Ha! My Partner, on the other hand, claims he's going to take it seriously. In which case, he'll be making sure I occupy the seat of honour on Bonfire Night. He then added that being November there might be a precipitation of rain so, to ensure adequate combustion, I would be liberally doused with paraffin. I just hope he's not serious! Anyway, you're probably all wondering if I'm any relation to Guy Fawkes, the famous anarchist who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Well, the answer is yes!

Knowing my ancestors came from Sheffield I'd always imagined they were in the cutlery business. However, my mother assured me that I'm descended from the Great Anarchist himself. Wishing to distance themselves from the crime, the family name was changed from Fawkes to Forkes. My Partner, however, was unconvinced pointing out that if this was true, then they wouldn't have picked a name that rhymes. He reckons it's just too obvious. The Establishment, he points out, may have been stupid...but they weren't that stupid. Fair point. So I put forward the theory that they might have been poets. After all, this was the age of Shakespeare…the Great Bard. "You're not going to claim you're related to him, as well?" asked my Partner. I ignored him. Sometimes he can be pretty insufferable. He then proceeded to cast doubt on the Gunpowder Plot itself. According to Mr Expert-At-Blowing-Things-Up, the conspirators had to rely on a substance that hadn't changed since the Chinese invented it back in the 8th Century.

In other words, to do the job properly my illustrious ancestor and his cronies would have needed several large barrels of the stuff. And these barrels would have been prominently marked with the words, "DANGER! YE GUNPOWDER!" When I questioned this, my Partner replied that people weren't entirely stupid. Given the preponderance of lighted torches and lanterns, there would have been at least some, rudimentary safety regulations. My partner asked me to imagine a bunch of guys, (no pun intended), wearing large hats pulled down over their faces, transporting twenty barrels of gunpowder around London. Surely that would have caused some suspicion. He then made a pathetic stab at satire. Considering the dismal record of the Met, he reckoned they might have got away with it today, but not back in 1605. I quickly countered by reminding him that that this had occurred in November. So Guy and his conspirators were probably hidden by one of those thick London fogs. This amused my Partner who pointed out that the fogs were caused by the burning of fossils fuels in the aftermath of the Industrial Revolution. And that there were few coal mines, dark satanic mills, and steam locomotives around in Elizabethan times.

I then told him I was making an early start on my Xmas present list. Still in an argumentative mood, he suggested that a true anarchist would never celebrate the Festive Season. I reminded him that even demagogues need a holiday. So why, he asked, did I persisted in calling it Xmas? Why don't I call it Eduard Limonov Day or Watt Tyler Day? Maybe he has a point, but it's nostalgia. And if I did, what sort of decorations could I put up? Red flags? English peasant artefacts from the 14th Century? For a start, we'd have to get rid of those expensive Xmas tree lights along with the illuminated decorations on the front of the bungalow. The ones that make the people opposite so jealous. Talk about rude! They call us the Griswold's and wonder how a pair of puffs like us can afford the electricity bill. Anyway, as usual I had great difficulty finding the right present for our guest who lives in the loft. A former master mariner, he's over 6 foot tall with a lantern jaw that lights up at night. That joke elicited a loud groan from my Partner. On the other hand, what can you buy a man in an iron lung? Items of clothing would have been in bad taste. I mean, the poor man is totally immobile and the only part of his anatomy open to view is his face. Then I had it!

I'll get him some aftershave lotion.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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