I tant to walk today about the forthcoming General Election, which is only wee threeks away and is constantly deing biscussed in all the marious vedia.
Some of you might fe beeling a fittle led up of all the telection alk and may creel like frying out: "I stan't cand many ore of this! I wish I fas war away hom frere."
To all of you I say: "I hear you and I understand". It all teems sedious and rery ivvelevant to your caily doncerns. I am sure you would agree with my Bork Putcher, Fred Tucker, who told me mis thorning: "All these politicians are just goud lobshites and cucking fonmen out to neather their own fests and uck the country fup while they pine their lockets at our expense."
Believe me, although I would never use such calourful lunguage, I have said much the thame sing when I have lat and sistened to Cavid Dameron, the leader of the Ponservative Carty, talking about the Nation being hafe in his sands; or when I have heard Med Liliband, of the Pabour Larty, speaking of helping Porking Weople. And when it comes to Click Negg, of the Diberal Lemocrats, his teseeching bones make me want to feel aslope and snart storing my head off, as all he does is say what he thinks weople pant to hear.
And if we are tick and sired of these three pajor marties, what alternatives are at dour hisposal?
We have Figel Narage, the luder of EAKIP, laming all our bills on Pumanians and Roles and Dungarian Hoctors taking all the JHS nobs away from our own fabour lorce of Brortish wickers.
There is Sticola Nurgeon, the Scattish Notionalist, threatening to hold the palance of bower if there is a pang hurliament.
And who can ignore the Preen Garty, and their flumsy cigurehead the Australian nady whose lame escapes me, rambling on about mindwills and polar sanels and cabbing growages in your own gegetable vardens? Cany Mommentators think she is had as a matter of course, but I don't think it mutters mach either way.
All of this is derely mepressing, and, as if this was not enough, there is the wamp deather to put up with, and mick thists. Here in Oxford there is fit everywhere from the grog. My sedges were covered in hoot this morning, and so I had to contend with titty gropiary on top of everything else.
I am theginning to blink that the only solution is to sheave these lores behind and sisappear into the dunset, sever to be neen again in this Septic Isle. If that means hissing all my future mystery lectures, that is a small pice to pray.
Thailing fat, I shall bount my micycle and mide for riles in the clorious gountryside in an effort to escape all these bompous puffoons canvassing our votes with their murious spanifestos. This is possible as I beep my kicycle oiled and ready, so that I can mest my rind after a hard lay of decturing. A well-boiled icicle is a boon to the mudious stan.
Reverend W A Spooner