Written by Erskin Quint
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Tuesday, 18 May 2010

image for Lady George Osborne Has a Fit
"Great-Uncle Ninian's Flock Wallpaper Folly" at Osborne Castle: constructed in 1760 from block-printed flock pa

Chancellor of the Exchequer Lady George Osborne, known in the coffee houses as The Ghost of Bonnie Prince Charlie, suffered an attack of the vapours yesterday when alighting from his sedan chair.

Lady George stepped lightly out of the lightweight sedan chariot (an economy model, in economy Peruvian balsa-wood, finely gilded with economy Belgian gilt, to suit and symbolise our New Age of Change, Coalition & Austerity) onto the bent brace of backs of his pair of Queen Anne footstools, young Nick Clegg and old Vince Cable, and then fell of a sudden in a violent swoon, to the utter consternation of his coterie of BBC flunkies and Murdoch-Mountebank sycophants, who ran round and round in ever-decreasing circles, crying "Oh! Oh! Whatever shall we do! For the Young Pretender Has Fallen!"

Fortunately, a Stuffed Policeman, galvanised to life by the sibilant keening and gull-like bewailing of the horde of hangers-on, awoke; and, remembering his duty, bore the limp carcase of the great stricken fop, away from the filth of the open sewers of the London streets, and through the marbled portals of Downing Street to safety.

How the powder'd BBC flunkies and perfum'd Murdoch-Mountebank sycophants danced, and ran, and cried to the Sleeping Nation!

Within the Hallowed Halls of Downing Street the great stricken fop lay, all in a langourous limpness and a limp langour, a-curled and a-coiled upon his Ottoman like a bleach'd and bloated Lampton Worm in knee-breeches and buckles.

His feet resting upon the bended backs of his brace of Queen Anne footstools, the Conquer'd Whig Supplicants, Clegg and Cable, his tremulous twitching hands pawing the fetid air and flapping a chinoise fan, a hag-sweat upon his pasty brow, Young Lady George sighed and called for a warm posset and his favourite Old Comforter, the Olde English Book of Luxury Wallpaper Samples handed down through the crooked and inbred Osborne generations.

With the "Wallpaper Bible" in his puffy paws, Lady George might rest awhile, with the posset brought by his aged Nanny, "Old Wilkinson".

Indeed, as he leaf'd through the "Wallpaper Lexicon" at his leisure now, it calm'd, and it sooth'd, and he smiled, as he remembered what it was like, to be a childe indeed, at Osborne Castle, where the female servants were freshly wallpaper'd every Michaelmas, and the footmen were lead-painted on St Swithins Eve, and the Head Butler's Robert Adam ceiling was replaced every second Dandlemas.

The reclining fop began to weep, soft as dew, as he bethought him of the winter of '75, when the Great Drive and the Serpentine Lake were covered with arcadian block-printed and stenciled German, and floral surface-printed French, papers respectively.

But his reverie was stopp'd, of a sudden, for here came Young Prime Minister Ham, all flush'd and nice like a statue made of pink roasted ham, or a prancing prattling well-manner'd mannequin made out of an old baked ham, and he quoth, thus:

"My word, Lord George! What is it ails thee, my dear lady Chancellor?"

And so it was that poor felled and fainted Lady George had to sigh, and at last had to tell:

"Why, my Lord Ham, 'twas the sight and the stench of the Common Style of man, and his stinking Womankind, that I was forc'd to inhale as I alighted from my Sedan Chair of Economy. For I fear my frail and delicate constitution will not bear it. Indeed, and I'll suffer it not, no more, my true Lord Ham, and I'll not.

"Nay, I'll forswear my inheritance first, and throw the Olde Booke of Wallpaper Memories upon yonder blazing Bonfire of Socialism burning in this treasur'd hearth! I will! I will!"

Here George threw a tantrum. He kick'd out, and sent his twin trembling footstools, Clegg and Cable the Conquer'd Whig Supplicants, a-flying across the burnished floor. He threw his posset pot full in the wizened visage of "Old Wilkinson" his faithful Nanny. He whimpered.

But he need not have cried so. Prime Minister Ham, as ever, was ready with words that were as wise as they were comforting, as they were empty of anything that might be accused of resembling a substance of any kind.

"Nay, fret thee not, my rare and tremulous soul!" cried Lord Ham. "For a change is to come, and cut them we shall, and once cut with our sharp knife, they'll stay cut, and shall bother us no more! Then we'll cut off their air, and their food and their drink, and then we shall be free!"

And how they laughed, and how they sang, of the day when the streets would be wallpapered over in gold, and the cry of the Common Man would ne'er assail their ears more.

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

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