A Woke Christmas Carol

(Posting here on request...)


I

    One upon a time - of all the good days in the year - on Christmas Eve, James Hard-Right Delingscrooge (hereon in to be known as Delingscrooge) sat busy at his desk in the best and most extravagant chamber of the Spectator’s head office. 
    It was cold, bleak, biting weather and the candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices of the New Statesmen and the Guardian. Delingscrooge, however, was warmed by the crackling of a large woodburning stove in the corner of his chamber; a stove that continued to belch out the wicked fumes of global warming.
    The door of the room was open so that he might keep an eye on his small bespectacled assistant, who in a dismal little cell beyond was busy writing up his articles and proof reading his work. His name was Toby Young-Cratchit, but we shall call him Tobes.
    “A Merry Christmas, God Save You!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of his brother Dick who had arrived in the city in order to sell his paintings in the Christmas market. Dick was dressed as a festive WW1 soldier with tinsel wrapped around his fine handlebar moustache.
    “Bah!” said Delingscrooge, “Humbug!”
    “Don’t be angry brother! Besides, you can’t say humbug anymore as it incites hatred and violence. Look, if you want greater reach for your podcast you have to modify your language and tone.”
    “What else can I be other than angry,” returned Delingscrooge, “when I live in such a world of cucks as this? Merry Christmas? What’s Christmas but a time for paying bills without a regular column in the Times, finding yourself a year older but not an hour richer and still no lorry arriving at the door laden with guns and porno lezzers. Every fool who goes around with Merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled in his own squishy virtue!”
    “I only wanted to see if you fancied a quick Christmas Yes / No game?”
    “Ok – so it’s a NO to everyone on your list! Now get out!”
    “That was a bit harsh,” said Tobes, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. 
    “Oh pass me the sick bucket!” snapped Delingscrooge. “Anyway, nobody asked your opinion, cuck-face! Have you finished my latest piece on how shit the Tory Party has become?”
    “I’m doing it now,” replied Tobes reluctantly.
    “Well, be quick about it!”
    Just then, another figure arrived at the door - a middle-aged man with a pious, self-righteous expression etched on his lefty face.
    “For God’s sake Tobes, why did you let this creature in?”
    “Well it is important to hear both sides of the argument, Master James,” mumbled Tobes.
    “Bah! I’ll deal with you later,” snapped Delingscrooge, turning back to face his new visitor. “What do you want?”
    “A Merry, Carbon-Neutral Christmas to you,” offered George Monbiot.
    “Watermelons are not welcome here! If you’ve come to lecture me you can save your time.”
    “No, no, I just wanted to pass you this,” replied Monbiot, handing Delingscrooge a letter.
    “What’s this?”
    “It’s a petition from The Guardian asking you to install a wind turbine in your back garden.”
    “Humbug!” Delingscrooge snatched the letter and tossed it into the fire.
    “It also instructs you to have all your wood burners removed,” said Monbiot, narrowing his eyes at the sight of the highly offensive right-wing fire.”
    “Do I look like I care?”
    “You might care about this,” Monbiot continued, handing him a second letter. “It’s an instruction from the Supreme Court confirming that you have to comply with our wishes. It’s legally binding from an independent and quite neutral set of judges and gives you thirty days to comply.”
    Delingscrooge took the letter and stared at it for a few moments.
    “The case was led by Jo Maugham,” Monbiot added.
    Delingscrooge scowled and screwed the envelope up, before reaching for his top drawer and pulling out a red baseball cap. With a defiant glare, he pulled it onto his head, the slogan, Make Britain Great Again emblazoned above the peak.
    “Now get out, I’ve got another hundred people to insult on Twitter and you’re holding me up!”
    Monbiot rose and trodden off, muttering insults under his breath. 
    After a few minutes jabbing furiously at his phone, Delingscrooge rose and took his coat from the bronze bust of Margaret Thatcher.
    “You’ll want tomorrow off I assume?” he asked Tobes.
    “If it’s convenient?”
    “It isn’t convenient and it’s not fair. If I were to treat you properly I’d dock your wages and make you do double time on Boxing Day. Now get that article finished immediately!”
    Muttering an assortment of inaudible curses, Delingscrooge marched out of the office and out into the dark, frosty night air. He stopped to reflect on the best route back to his apartment, given that one street would almost certainly be blocked by Anfita protesters and another by Guardian readers who would abuse him for yet another year of writing incendiary, far right articles. Realising that it was too cold for olive-based picnics and therefore the third option would at least be clear of remain protestors, he pulled his collar up against the cold and made his way back home. As he walked down the street, he passed Dominic Frisby playing jovial-yet-satirical Christmas Carols on his ukulele whilst being heckled by a small black man in a tight pink moob-restraining t-shirt. 
    Presently, Delingscrooge reached the steps of the building and approached the door. As he put his key in the lock, he saw the knocker change shape and transform into the face of a young man.
    “I’m not gay,” Delingscrooge muttered, “but if I were gay he’s the sort of chap I’d go for!”
    It was then that he realized the face was that of Owen Jones, the former Guardian columnist. Before he could register his shock, however, the knocker turned back into its original shape.
    “Impossible!”
    Delingscrooge shot inside and slammed the door behind him and marched up to his quarters, where he brewed a huge pot of his favourite imperialistic, colonial tea. As he relaxed in his burgundy leather gentlemen’s armchair, a sinister noise sounded in the background, growing louder and louder. Delingscrooge scoured the room frantically but saw no sign of what was causing the disturbance and yet the sound continued to grow louder still; an ominous, eerie clanking. All of a sudden, a ghostly apparition burst through the doorway, emitting a highly camp shriek, causing Delingscrooge to shrink back in horror, spilling his racist tea all over his fox hunting jacket.
    The ghost was shrouded in a tangle of huge chains and as it minced across towards the chair, Delingpole noticed that it bore the very same face as the one the door knocker had transformed into earlier.
    “Delingscrooge!” the ghost shrieked, pointing a girly finger at him.
    “You!” Delingscrooge spluttered. “But I thought you were dead!”
    The ghost emitted a hollow laugh, the sort of smug laugh that someone with a hidden agenda might emit when discussing terrorist atrocities on Sky News with Julia Hartley-Brewer.
    “Owen, I’m sure you disappeared a year ago and haven’t been seen since. Surely this is an illusion?”
    “Yes that’s right,” the ghost replied. “Last Christmas I went to visit Carol Cadwalladr to interview her for a BBC Documentary on the rise of the far right. When I arrived she wasn’t home and unfortunately I was set upon by her one hundred and seventy three cats who ripped me apart limb by limb (rather like that scene in the film Let the Right One In). I tragically lost my life that day, but my spirit lives on!”
    “But how is it that you appear before me if you died that day?”
    “How indeed?” the ghost snapped bitterly. “I was ascribed an incorrect and assumed gender in the afterlife and lodged a formal complaint with a view to de-platforming Saint Peter from the Gates of Heaven. However, in order to be granted a gender-neutral pronoun I was sent back to earth with a quest to achieve before I can return and live in a left-wing utopian paradise.”
    “And what might your quest be, Oh Spirit of Owen Jones?” Delingscrooge uttered fearfully.
    “I have to rescue enough hard right Brexshitters from a gammon-fuelled destiny, turning them into woke socialists, or at the very least liberals.”
    “Am I the first on your list?”
    “No, you are the last. So far I have succeeded in every single target – David Cameron, Jeremy Clarkson, Toby Young-Cratchit.”
    “Tobes? I knew it!” Delingscrooge spat.
    “Yes and now I just need you to complete my quest!” the spirit smiled in a boyish, somewhat patronizing manner.
    “What happens next, spirit?”
    “You will be visited this very night by three spirits, each of whom will attempt to bend you to their will. The first will arrive when the bell strikes one. And remember, James Hard-Right Delingscrooge, these chains that consume me are forged in the offices of the Guardian and each link represents a different gender. That’s why they are growing every day – yours too will grow for all eternity – ah hahahahaha AH HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
    With that, a terrible chill swept the room and Delingscrooge shrank further back into his chair, shutting his eyes to the dreadful sight of the boyish spirit and his ridiculous petulant expression. When he opened them again the ghost was gone.
    “Thank fuck for that,” Delingscrooge muttered, before jumping to his feet and racing to his huge four-poster bed, pulling the curtains around him in a shroud of darkness. Composing himself, he quickly fell into a restless sleep.






II

    After some time, Delingscrooge awoke with a start, having heard the distant sound of a bell striking in the street outside. There appeared to be a stream of light from behind the curtains; and as he peered nervously through the gap, he spied a tiny figure stood by the window illuminated by a holy shroud of virtue and saintliness. As his eyes adjusted to the scene, he realized from the pigtails that it was a girl and noticed a halo around her head.
    “Are you the first spirit?” he gulped.
    “Yes,” she replied in a curious accent. “I am Saint Greta of Thunberg and I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. If you take my hand I will fly you around London and show you the error of your ways without consuming any carbon because I am holy and only I have been bequeathed this gift. I’m like a cross between Joan of Arc and Jesus and that woman who threw herself under a horse and shit like that.”
    “Alright, alright I get the idea,” said Delingscrooge. 
    He offered his hand and the spirit clasped him gently and benevolently. They passed through the wall and stood upon an open road with fields on either side. The city had disappeared entirely.
    “Good heavens!” said Delingscrooge. “I was bred in this place. I was a boy here!”
    “Yes,” the spirit replied. “Behold the open country fields of Worcestershire!”
    “It doesn’t look like that now.”
    “No it doesn’t!” the spirit spat bitterly. “They have been built over by evil construction companies seeking to provide houses for all the people who rose above their station during the Thatcher years. If they had stayed in their state-owned council houses, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have DIED of carbon and that!”
    “But …”
    Before Delingscrooge could complete his sentence, they left the view of the fields and arrived at a very stately looking set of medieval buildings. The spirit stopped outside a very grand window and asked him if he knew it.
    “Know it?” said Delingscrooge. “I was educated here.”
    They went in. The room was full of joviality and merriment; clearly, the Oxford academic semester had finished and Yuletide celebrations had begun. At the sight of a young gentleman with a pompous expression in the corner, Delingscrooge cried out with excitement.
    “It’s old Fezzi-Gove!”
    They continued to stare at Fezzi-Gove, who took the hand of a young female student and began to dance. 
    “Look, there’s David Cameron! And over there Boris. And Tobes – bloody hell, he gets everywhere. And…and… that’s me!”
    “Yes,” the spirit replied. “That’s you. Are you dancing? No, you’re sneaking off to smoke drugs. At least these boys kept their head down and gave themselves to the establishment, whereas you spent your time in selfish pursuits. They chose to be woke – why couldn’t you?”
    “Hold on,” said Delingscrooge. “Where’s Cameron going? Is that a pig’s head he has in his hands?”
    However, the scene faded out and they continued to the next place, which was a huge field full of people. It was no longer winter but summer and music sounded from somewhere in the distance. 
    “This is Glastonbury!” remarked Delingscrooge. “Why have you brought me here?”
    They landed and Delingscrooge immediately observed his younger self fooling around outside a tent with long hair, looking rather like a knock off Robert Plant.
    “Surely I never looked like that?”
    “I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the spirit. “They are what they are, do not blame me for the fact that you were once inoffensive.”
    “You’re making me feel old.”
    “How dare you! HOW DARE YOU!” the spirt yelled, jabbing a ghostly finger in his midriff. “You used to have long hair and listen to music with all the other peaceful folk and now you stand before me with your foxhunting jacket on! Instead of dedicating yourself to saving the planet you dedicated yourself to writing inflammatory articles, publishing your Watermelons book and spreading lies about wind turbines.”
    “But they slice birds and blight the landscape!” Delingscrooge interjected. He noticed that they had suddenly left the field and had returned to the frosty streets of London.
    “You DARE lecture people on these matters! You ignore science – these are not subjects that should be debated!” the spirit ranted. “Everything in the past that you say was great was actually shit because it caused climate change and now look at where we are – the planet will die in a few years time like me. Perhaps even tomorrow (despite it being frigging freezing at the moment)!”
    Before Delingscrooge could argue further, the spirit disappeared from view and even the London streets darkened as he fell back into a fitful sleep.






III

    Sometime later, Delingscrooge became aware of another bell sounding and realized that the hour had approached for the second ghost to arrive. He reached nervously for the gap in the four-poster curtains and peered apprehensively through. There was a ghostly light emanating from an adjoining room and with a fit of trembling, he got up and shuffled slowly to the door. The moment Delingscrooge’s hand was on the lock, an aggressive voice called out:
    “Oi! Nazi! Come in here now!”
    Delingscrooge obeyed and entered. It was his own room, of that there was no doubt. However, it had undergone a huge transformation with leaves and berries hanging from the walls and ceiling. On the floor a mountain of plates were gathered and it was clear that they had recently carried a feast of food including turkey, goose, game pie, sausages, mince-pies and plumb pudding. However, all that was left was an array of crumbs, for an enormous gentleman who sat in the middle of the room had evidently scoffed the lot. He was a huge, barrel-chested black man who bore a glowing torch and held it up high to shine a light on Delingscrooge as he came peeping round the door. 
    “Come in.” exclaimed the spirit. “Come in, and know me better, man.”
    Delingscrooge walked forward. The spirit was clothed in a green robe bordered with white fur. His chest was bare and his eyes cast a keen X-ray beam of racism detection for the good of mankind. 
    “I am Lammy, the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the spirit. “Look upon me.” The spirit rose with a deafening belch, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and made his way over to the window.
    “Are you going to show me more sights, spirit?” Delingscrooge asked.
    “Yes, though I would prefer it if we had some protection out there at this time,” the spirit reflected, staring out at the scene below. “I haven’t seen a single policeman all night.”
    “There’s one over there,” said Delingscrooge. “And there – look. In fact there’s load of them!”
    “You miss the point,” the spirit snapped, narrowing his eyes as he realized what an utter dimwit he was. “Your white privilege means you only see an opportunity to stop and search innocent black people!”
    Unsure how to reply to this statement, Delingscrooge offered his arm and once again felt himself transported into the cold night sky.
    “Where are we going?” he asked, at length.
    “We follow the path of righteousness,” the spirit replied. “This torch represents Twitter, which in itself is a beacon that illuminates our souls.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means you are a FAR RIGHT BREXTREMIST!”
    Before Delingscrooge could react, the spirt swooped down nearer to the street where a cluster of white homeless people huddled together for warmth.
    “Racists!” the spirit yelled.
    They changed course and flew past another group – this time a Salvation Army marching band raising money for charity with a tender festive rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.
    “Fascist scum!” the ghost called, his face contorted in a blaze of fury and flecks of spittle flying from his mouth.
    “Surely not all of these people are racist, Oh Enlightened Spirit?” Delingscrooge ventured.
    “Indeed not, look over here.”
    They swept down another street where there was a set of high-rise apartments. Above the door was a brass-plated sign that read Luxury Communism Expert and through the window he could see a young woman with a mustache having sex in the manner of a porn star.
    “She’s not racist,” the spirit announced.
    “Right, okay.”
    They changed course again, this time sweeping past Parliament Square. Down below, Diane Abbot and Dawn Butler were making their way towards College Green.
    “They are not racist,” the spirit stated, shining his ridiculous torch towards them.
    “But they’re both thick as pigshit,” Delingscrooge replied. “Besides which, Diane Abbot is quite racist actually.”
    “NONSENSE!” yelled the ghost. “It’s impossible to be black and racist!”
    “In that case, the woman over there must be fairly sound,” Delingscrooge remarked, pointing to the small figure of Priti Patel in the distance, emoji heart symbols flaring where his eyes used to be.
    The ghost’s face contorted at this and it looked for a moment that Lammy’s head might explode at this conundrum. Instead, they fell back into the sky and continued to soar through the freezing night, leaving the twinkling lights of London behind and eventually making their way towards what appeared to be the coast of Kent.
    “See below.”
    Delingscrooge glanced down as the ghost guided him nearer to the choppy waters. Approaching the white cliffs of Dover were two very large rubber dinghies, packed full with what appeared to be African migrants.
    “Behold! Two boats carrying doctors and lawyers coming to help enrich our otherwise racist country and redress the balance of colour. Their selfless journey will help prop up our under-funded NHS and to ensure that there is enough legal assistance to democratically oppose a hard Brexit.”
    “They are all doctors and lawyers?” Delingscrooge muttered doubtfully.
    “See! The inherent racism of the privileged white man knows no limits! It is clear that my pointing out the reality of the progressive new world we have built has done you no favours. I have no option other than to hand you over to the final spirit who will show you what must happen if you do not repent. Besides which, I’m bloody starving – I’ll fade away if I don’t eat anything soon.”
    They were making their way back now, the darkening sky obscuring the previous scene and moments later bringing them back to the familiar lights of London. Soon they were descending to street level once more and Delingscrooge found himself landing softly on the cobbled stones, shivering as he did so. The hand that had grasped him for the duration of his flight had grown withered and frail. As he began to walk he felt the final sensation disappear and with his lip trembling, he turned around to see what was left of Lammy. Gone was the second spirit and instead, there before him, was a tall phantom shrouded in a black cloak and hood. Somewhere in the distance, a bell struck three.






IV

    “Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” asked Delingscrooge.
    The spirit silently approached and nodded gravely. Its very presence seemed to scatter gloom and misery through the night air.
    “You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,” Delingscrooge pursued. “Is that so, Spirit?”
    The phantom did not move or speak but instead pointed a limp hand out from the deep black garment towards an iron gate that stood on the corner of the street.
    “Ghost of the Future!” Delingscrooge exclaimed, “I fear you more than any spirit I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company. Will you not speak to me?”
    It gave him no reply but began to walk slowly towards the gate. As they approached, it became clear that it was the entrance to a graveyard. A sense of overwhelming dread and doom filled his very soul as they passed through and came to a rest alongside a newly-laid headstone where two men were talking to each other.
    “Last week it was,” the first man muttered. “They found him slumped at his desk. Was only a matter of time.”
    “What was the cause?” the second man asked.
    “He died of overwork,” the first replied. “Apparently his awful boss flogged him to death. Poor ‘ol Mr Young-Cratchit!”
    Delingscrooge glanced down and noticed the following inscription on the stonework:

In Loving memory of Tobes. He was never fully accepted by the establishment, despite all his efforts.

    “Spirit!” he hissed. “Do you mean to tell me that Tobes will die?”
    Instead of answering him, the spirit moved onwards to another grave. This one was marked with a far more extravagant, pedimental affair flanked by two winged cherubs and a Latin inscription on the apex. The dedication read as follows: 

Here lies the Right Honourable Jacob Rees Mogg. Suffocated by his ever-expanding giant suit in retribution for being a Brextreemist and using anachronistic language. May he never rest in peace.

    “Bloody hell, this is awful!” Delingscrooge wailed. “Stop this, spirit, please, I’ve had quite enough of this already!”
    The ghost continued to ignore him and instead pointed a finger back at the two men who were approaching them, coming to rest at a freshly dug hole only a few feet away from the grave of the fallen Member for North East Somerset. 
    “Better get the rest of these done tonight,” the first man said, pulling up a shovel. “I got a new job starting tomorrow.”
    “Oh yeah, what’s that?” the second man asked.
    “Digging out footings for a new windfarm,” he replied. “Up in the Midlands. That’s the twentieth new one this month they’ve started work on.”
    “How you going to get up there now that they’ve banned cars completely?” the second asked.
    “Lentil-powered community cycle,” the first man answered, without the slightest hint of a snigger.
    “Come on then, let’s get this one done and that only leaves one more to do.”
    Delingscrooge glanced down and saw a coffin at the foot of the hole. The headstone above bore an embossed swastika, below which the text read:

Here lies Trump. America was never great.

    Delingscrooge’s heart began to thump. What on earth was happening in this hellish future world? Had everything gone to complete and utter shit?
    “This is the last one,” the first man called. “Dump the coffin in and let’s get out of here.”
    “Who’s this one?”
    “Some ‘ol fascist from the Midlands. He’s the chap whose house was seized by the state for this new windfarm I’m helping to build tomorrow. When Jo Maugham QC took over as the Legal Leader of the UK and appointed George Monbiot as Supreme Environment Chairperson, the first thing he did was seize this chap’s land. It was enough to finish him off.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Oh I don’t know – all his friends are gone so there’s no marking on the headstone. It was something miserable and racist-sounding like Delinscrooge I think.”
    With that, Delinscrooge sank to his knees, his mind a swirling panic and a horrified expression etched upon his features. The spirit pointed ominously to the deep hole and the black void seemed to open further like the mouth of a great white shark. 
    “Spirit! I beg you, please have mercy!” Delinscrooge implored, clasping his hands together almost in prayer. “Have these events not yet come to pass? Is there still time to avoid this misery? Or must these things be? I don’t want to die – nor do I wish for this hellish, liberal, green, censorial dictatorship to take over my country!”
    Just then, several things happened at once. There was a disturbance over by the entrance to the graveyard and a group of men entered through the gate. The two gravediggers stopped work and called out, “Who goes there?” Several of the group switched on torches and the graveyard became illuminated, revealing that the newcomers were a band of WW1 re-enactors, led by Delinscrooge’s brother Dick, who had come to re-enact the Christmas 1914 game of football in the trenches.
    Caught by surprise, the gravediggers stumbled back, bumping into the spirit, who jerked a hand out to steady itself and in doing so caused the black cape and hood to fall off and drop to the ground.
    “Shit!” the spirit hissed. “Fucking hell!”
    Delinscrooge stared at the man beneath the dark shroud and realized that he was looking at non-other than the virtue-signaling Canadian leader Justin Trudeau, his face having been blacked up in order to play the role of the phantom. 
    “YOU!” Delingscrooge gasped. “What a complete bloody fraud!”
    “Shit, shit, shit!” Trudeau muttered, frantically trying to scoop up the costume. 
    “Blacking up, after everything you’ve lectured us on!”
    “Come on man, I didn’t realise what I was doing, I didn’t know!” Trudeau howled. “This is part of my learning journey, for which I am grateful so that I can become a better human being. Besides which, I hadn’t got to the point where I tell you to go and visit Portland.”
    Just then, the soldiers began to spread out and the authentic leather-stitched football was brought out to start the game. One of the lads gave it a hearty boot and it struck Trudeau right on the arse as he bent forwards to gather his cloak.
    “Argh!” he cried, toppling forwards into the open grave. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!”
    Delingscrooge peered over as the figure disappeared from sight. Oddly, everything suddenly seemed to disappear, the voices became distorted and the images blurry. As if descending down a long tunnel, the scene darkened once more and everything fell silent.







V

    Delingscrooge came to. The bedpost was his own. The bed was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own too!
    “I will live in the past, the present and the future!” he called out, springing from his mattress. “I am still here, what joy!”
    Outside, there came the distant sound of a church bell clanging and the glorious light of the early morning winter sun. Running to the window. Delingscrooge opened it and put out his head. There was no fog, no mist, no bleak darkness but jovial, stirring cold mixed with the golden sunlight upon the smattering of snow below. He noticed a boy loitering in the street below.
    “You boy! Tell me what day it is?”
    “Why it’s Christmas Day of course,” the boy replied, looking startled.
    “It’s Christmas Day,” said Delingscrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it; the spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like – of course they can!”
    The boy looked puzzled.
    “How would you like to earn yourself a bitcoin?”
    “Very much so kind sir!” the boy nodded eagerly.
    “Very well!” Delingscrooge yelled with a sadistic grin. “Firstly, find that poisoned dwarf Bercow and seize his Range Rover. Peel off that ridiculous Bollocks to Brexit sticker and then drive it flat out in second gear (preferably running over any stray cats in the process) to the house of my cuckold assistant Tobes. Tell him to stop all that celebratory Yuletide nonsense with his family and get his cuck-faced arse back to the Spectator offices immediately where he needs to publish my article on how Trump is our God!”
    “Yes sir!”
    “Wait! I also want you to send word to my brother Dick. Tell him to gather his re-enactment soldiers in their best uniforms and march this very hour upon the Borough of Islington. I want it raised to the ground before the day is out – do you hear me?”
    “Yes sir!”
    “And finally, saddle my horse and fetch my guns for now I ride out to war!”
    Delingscrooge ran to his wardrobe, seized the rest of his hunting attire (which included a custom red hat with “Trump is Our God” written on) and gamboled downstairs, where his horse was waiting for him. He leapt on in cavalier fashion and seized his gun, rearing the horse in the air rather like Henry V at the siege of Harfleur.
    “Together we will celebrate Christmas the correct way, by sacking the establishment and forming a new world order. Cry God for libertarianism, guns and porno lezzers!”
    With that the horse galloped off. Delingscrooge opened fire and began to throw Molotov cocktails into the windows of the offices of the New Statesman, The Guardian, Scotland Yard as well as the buildings of the civil service, the Supreme Court and other such places – it was basically like the end of Game of Thrones where Daenerys goes mental and reduces Kings Landing to rubble. All the while he yelled, “I’m ALWAYS right, I’ll NEVER surrender!” whilst a pack of baying hounds charged by his side, savaging the corpses of the fallen. 

    He had no further visits from the spirits, but lived happily ever afterwards; and it was always said of James Hard-Right Delingscrooge that he knew how to keep the spirit of woke well and truly at bay. May that be truly said of us and to all the non-binary virtue-signallers, god help them, every one! 

Comments

  1. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahaha!!!!

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  2. This has David Lammy 100% bang on. Also, I love the onslaught on Old London Town at the end!

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  3. You should do a sequel next year. Actually, the BBC should just commission this for television in 2020 (it would be less woke than their output, including I might add their recent version of Christmas Carol).

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  4. The Rightful Hunter10 January 2020 at 08:44

    Who in their right mind would fancy Owen Jones??? Gggggggnnnnnergh :(

    ReplyDelete

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