And now Jasmine told Tavish all she knew of Little Levy Balquhidder, of how he had devised the string and tin-can telephone which Tavish had found to be the one glimmer of hope when he and the others had been stranded in the 13th Century; she told him about The Creator – ignoring Tavish's sceptical eye-roll – and how Levy was now in contact with another Spirit, Columbine, just twenty years in the future, and she told him about the one living and three dead who had turned up there and were part of a case the police were still investigating here and now; "but according to Sam," said Tavish, "there is no here and now – everything is all around is, Past, Present and Future, happening simultaneously, I didn't study Philosophy or Quantum Physics, so I just don't get it!" and Jasmine replied: "according to Levy, there is only ever The Present, the Point of Time and Space in which we exist, and every step we take, corner we turn, door we open, telephone call we either answer or ignore, takes us into a new, alternative Universe which exists, alongside those in which we made a different choice." and Tavish shook his head: "you've told me that this Little Levy is the reincarnation of my scapegrace brother, Pherson, and if that is true, how can I believe anything he says?" to which Jasmine snapped: "for Christ's sake, Tavish, don't act like a standee in front of me – you can ask him yourself, he speaks for himself, pro se, no intermediaries – and remember, it's entirely thanks to him discovering the Moth Hole and devising the string thing, that you and your friends are here!" and suddenly, in that instant, Tavish's perspective changed and he knew a parallax when he experienced it, "you are right Jasmine, I'm sorry for behaving like a numpty; take me to him, let me hear what he has to say," and Jasmine smiled, "well it's rather late tonight, he goes down by 7pm at the latest, so let me call his mum, Rilla, and see if we can't have a chat with him in the morning."
The strange thing was that, at first, no-one even noticed that Sam was no longer in the room; Jasmine had just gone out to fetch another couple of bottles of whisky, and Irn-Bru for the children (although Lolly pouted at being identified as a child and said that she had been drinking 'hard licker' since she had first been sold, and Wullie didn't seem to understand the term, saying that people of about his size and age were 'jist wee fowk' and anyway, 'aw oo drink at hame is sma' beer, it's only gentry hae onythin else') and when she returned, assumed that he had either gone to the loo or outside for a smoke; it was only when he didn't return and the others who had been outside – Tavish Dalwhinnie, Peter Lorre, Leslie Howard, Diana Mitford, Laszlo Licinic, Lolly, Uncle Tom Cobley and all – said that no, they hadn't seen him there – she became concerned; he seemed to have just vanished; then Geli Raubal said that when everyone began arguing about 'eternal spirits' she had noticed him looking rather pale and undoing his shirt collar and loosening his tie, but when she next looked and he wasn't there, assumed that he had gone out for some air! this was, Jasmine decided, strange, and that was when she began to worry, as she confided later to Tavish, after the others had returned to the Waverley Castle Hotel where they were all booked in for a fortnight (renewable) as Morningside Literary Society a cover regularly used by the Scottish Secret Service because it was sufficiently a 'catch-all' to permit a varied group including several 'strange' or 'odd' individuals (after all, everyone knows someone odd in Morningside – maiden aunts and former military or naval uncles being the most common – and least said soonest mended) and they by and large went relatively unnoticed by the staff, except for that time when the Suffragan Bishop of Goole and Mrs . . . . . no, that's a different story; being an old colleague of Sam's, Tavish knew straight away what Jasmine was getting at; "you think he has gone walkies?" which was his term for anyone disappeared from one era, or epoch, and finding themselves in another – just as during the Cold War it was applied to anyone, whether Mole, Sleeper, or Zealot, who vanished from The Scottish Office, Edinburgh University, or Leith Docks and reappeared soon afterwards in Moscow or Peking (as Beijing was then referred) or even, in the case of Montague Mingulay, the beatinest poet to have emerged from the Outer Hebrides and long-time lover of the Duchess of Troon, in Tirana, Albania! and even now, Mingulay and his Duchess, who had abandoned her husband and children to join him, still live as honoured guests of the government which replaced the Dictator, Enver Hoxha, but Jasmine found it difficult to be whimsical, in the way Tavish seemed to find quite natural, though she supposed that having worked in the shadows for so many decades he, and Sam, had adopted a particular carapace to protect themselves from the occupational hazards which always swirled around their activities; even she found it strange to think of what they all did as 'work' and yet it could hardly be called 'play' either; nominally, she was a senior researcher at the National Library of Scotland on George IV Bridge in Edinburgh, but she spent three days a week in the little Georgian cottage in Darnick, and two with a couple of her colleagues under cover as a Pole Dancer and Stripper in the Burke and Hare pub in Easter Road, which was under constant surveillance as the suspected hub of a network of illegal enterprises – particularly in the Sex Trade, smuggling young girls from Eastern Europe with promises of a Good Life in the West, which forced them to work as child prostitutes among other things; the infamous Ring of Gold was at the top of this criminal pyramid and Jasmine and her colleagues were amassing a lot of information and evidence to bring the whole structure down and the Procurator had high hopes of arraigning the ringleaders, being determined to show through his perspicuous depositions that no-one, of whatever estate, was above The Law and to this end the investigation was being supported by The Justice League of Auld Reekie and The Economic Migrant, who was charging nothing for his services.
Sam explained: "Little Levy Balquhidder is just over a year old, but his Spirit, like those which are within us and everyone else on this planet, is as old as the Universe, even older, in fact; but while we, and most people, have no memories before our present lives, Levy's Spirit remembers everything that has ever happened to it; indeed, as I have already told Tavish, in it's immediately former life it was Tavish's twin brother, Pherson Dalwhinnie!" the group seemed to fragment, as people began argy-bargying with those sitting closest to them, and Sam wondered if he was using double-think, or should it be termed cognitive dissonance, in some form, as a way to split off the rubbernecks – those who would only ever be passive observers (or should that be passive-aggressive observers, he found himself wondering) and he felt as if her were in one of the deep, marrow, almost claustrophobic glens that run into the Cheviots, places where the only sounds are of nature – birds, grasshoppers, trickling burns, winds whistling – and he got that strange sensation in which everything in the room was receding from him, and he felt a whump-whump in his head like that horrifying sequence in Apocalypse Now when it builds as a prelude to a bloody attack by US Gunships on a Vietnamese village and while the walls of the room and the people in it moved further away, and the ceiling soared high above him, until it disappeared and became a brilliant blue sky, and he realised that he was lying on his back, on a grassy hillside, with small clouds scudding from left to right and down below him the water gurgling over rocks and that was when his head was struck by a stone which knocked him out, and left blood trickling from a deep cut just above his right eye, but he knew nothing of this, or of anything else, for the blackness had swallowed him completely!
And so, Maude told the group what had happened in Red Square on May Day 1933: "the crowd was enormous, rubbernecking and delighted to see Stalin and the other members of the Politburo on the stand, with the Ambassadors, including Sir Palimpsest MacFarlane. the British Ambassador at Uncle Joe's shoulder when, after the drayage of trucks and lorries had passed, along with an impressive display by the Red Army, Stalin raised his hands, appealing for the cheers to subside:" Comrades, Comrades, a most historic event, a Cablegram – of congratulations – from Trotsky!" the hordes cheered and cheered and cheered again, Trotsky, the Hero of the Revolution, now banished from the Soviet Union, was he coming back? flags billowed in the wind, hats thrown up seemed to volplane in the warm air and Stalin read the cable aloud:
COMRADE JOSEPH STALIN
YOU WERE RIGHT AND I WAS WRONG, YOU ARE THE TRUE HEIR OF LENIN, I SHOULD APOLOGISE,
you can imagine what a roar, what an explosion of astonishment, erupted in Red Square now! the people were mafecking in their ecstasy, but in the front row, below the podium. a little tailor called, 'psst! psst! Comrade Stalin,' and Stalin leaned down, and the tailor said 'such a message, Comrade Stalin, for the ages! but you read it without the right feeling!' whereupon Stalin waved his hand and stilled the throng once more: 'Comrades, here is a simple worker, a tailor from Minsk, a loyal Communist, who says I haven't read the message from Trotsky with enough feeling! come, Comrade Worker! up here! you read this historic communication!' so the little tailor went up to the reviewing stand, and took the cablegram from Stalin and read:
'COMRADE JOSEPH STALIN
then he cleared his throat and sang out:
'YOU WERE RIGHT AND I WAS WRONG? YOU ARE THE TRUE HEIR OF LENIN? I SHOULD APOLOGISE???111...
the response was a mixture of laughs from those who got it, and shakes of the head from those who didn't, but it was Sam who said to Peter Boo: "we already know how little separates any two alternatives, so we need to be willing to open our minds to different interpretations and accept that the impossible may well be the truth!" and then he told them what he had learned from Little Levy Balquhidder that very morning.
Under a linocut of a famous image of Picasso's 'Portrait of a Woman after Cranach the Younger', Peter Boo felt like a rubberneck, too reserved to cross the threshold, which is why he felt he had been snubbed, and so it was left to the moon-faced Peter Lorre to ask: "so, the telegram, what said it?" and that was Maude's cue to carry on with the tale, a tale which hinged on a form of cacoepy and which raised a few eyebrows!
"And in what way is that relevant?" asked Roxy Davidova, taking a few days respite after her Scottish Unionist Party notched up 12 gains in the General Election, "not that I want to seem to repugn your argument, Maude dear, but I'm uncertain as to what part the little Jewish Tailor had to play in the murder – or Justifiable Homicide in some cultures, of Sir Palimpsest," and it was Peter Boo who tried to calm things down: "it may be a matter of culture indeed, or custom, as to whether a cash-back system is regarded as lagniappe or bribery; maybe the difference is whether a corner shop apple-polishes it's customers with a Baker's Dozen, or a Clearing Bank puts a million squid in the palm of the Chairman who is handing the bank a serious contract!" and Maude crossed her arms and uncrossed them and said: "it was the telegram from Trotsky that was the catalyst, Roxy; now we all know how bilious Uncle Joe could become, but at this time it wasn't so obvious, the paranoia hadn't set in – yes, he had learned in his years on the run to look over his shoulder, to trust very few, to be ruthless when he felt that to be necessary, exactly the kind of behaviour Carlos displayed at a similar point in his career," and Lolly, who had been trying very hard to follow the story which was unfolding, but felt herself floundering – the Scottish tongue she had picked up in the 13th Century Borderlands and Edinburgh was limiting her understanding in 21st Century Darnick – raised her hand tentatively and asked Maude: "whae is this Carlos loon, soonds like a richt numpty tae me," and Wullie echoed her, "an me tae," at which she scowled and muttered at him from the side of her mouth: "goanie no say that!" and flushing with embarrassment, he replied: "hoo no fur?" and she fairly spat the words at hem: "Jist! – Goanie! – No!" and flung herself back into her chair and glowered at the boy.
"Well," said Maude, taking a sip of her vodka, "some of you may have heard this before, while some of you won't, but it concerns Mr Stalin, who was possessed of a considerable duende and whose real name, of course, was Djugushvilli, on account of his being from Tbilisi in Georgia, and it happened at Red Square in Moscow, on the occasion of the May Day Celebrations in 1930 something – can you remember, Sam?" she asked Smiles, who said: "it was 1933 when Sir Palimpsest MacFarlane was briefly the British Ambassador in Moscow," and Daphne nodded, "that's right, between the withdrawal of Sir Esmond Ovey and the appointment of the Viscount Chilston, when things were a bit iffy over the arrest of some engineers of Metropolitan-Vickers who were accused of espionage and wrecking – wasn't one of them a Desmond Doubleday?" and Sam concurred: "yes, he was said by the Russians to be the ringleader, but he was released after two months," and Maude continued: "well MacFarlane was on the podium, along with other diplomats from the few countries who had full relations with Russia at the time, and he overheard the whole thing and wrote it out verbatim from memory," and Daphne interjected: "he had a wonderful memory, despite his debauchery, if I remember correctly," and Maude patted her hand, "you do, dear heart, you always remember the family birthdays and there are so many of them," Daphne smiled, then added, "I also recollect that that particular MacFarlane lost his head in the Land of the Midnight Sun when the father of a young girl from a nomadic tribe of Reindeer herders came upon him repaying the hospitality they had shown him by having his wicked way with the girl, who must only have been about 8 or ten years of age – the father, a sinewy nomad named Gluskrhind Haarfeece, slew him with a single sweep of his sabre, then hung the ex-Ambassador's head to the bridle of his lead Reindeer and took it at the end of their estival grazing on the Arctic pastures, together with the frozen body which had been dragged on a litter, to the authorities in Tomsk," and Maude finished that tale with: "and his head, reunited with his body, was sent West on the Trans-Siberian Railway but unfortunately by the time it reached his estate in Perthshire it was so decomposed and stinking that no-one came to the funeral and it was left to that same Desmond Doubleday who had collected it at the local station on Rannoch Moor, carried it in a dog-cart to the house and buried it in the little graveyard at the back of the property, where it still lies, below a statue of a man with his head tucked underneath his arm which is reportedly how it lies in the coffin, now, where was I?" and Sam reminded her, "the story about Stalin and the little Jewish Tailor!"
The sitting room of the cottage in Darnick was full: Sam Smiles and Jasmine Juniper-Green of the Scottish Security Service were the hosts and sat slightly apart from the others, the returnees from the 13th century; Tavish Dalwhinnie was placed beside Sister Evadne Eglantyne, then Bernie Westwater and her lover, Tammy Shanter; beside them sat Lolly Antonescu and Wullie – who didn't have a surname – and also there were Peter Boo, Laszlo Licinic, Peter Lorre, Geli Raubal and Unity Mitford, Lesley Howard, Uncle Tom Cobley and all; Tavish had just been telling of the night before the 'Passage' during which they had travelled through Time and Space by climbing through Tavish's cloak and emerging from Little Levi Balquhidder's Teddy Bear, Karla; and Daphne, who, with Maude, had been invited to attend because of their researches into the MacFarlane Clan, felt a growing sense of chagrin pervading the room as Tavish's tale seemed to drift and become confusticated in the retelling – she longed to seize him by the yellow paisley cravat he wore and shake him, as Alice started to shake the Red Queen, only to find her metamorphose into the black kitten, but she could hardly do that to Tavish, after all he had been through, so she nudged Maude and whispered: "tell them the one about Stalin and the little Jewish Tailor," and Sam's ears pricked at the mention of Stalin: "what's that Daphne? something about Uncle Joe? do tell us dear, it might lighten th mood, and it's about time we all had a little refreshment, shall it be vodka this time, in keeping with the story Maude is about to relate?" so Jasmine refilled the glasses and Maude waited until everyone was settled, and then she began.
And while Teri Maybe-Maybenot tried to explain to her apologetic wee hubby, Pip, the strength of her newly discovered feelings for the DUP Pasha, Tangerine Foster, she found herself becoming exasperated: "my God, Pippin, you are a Customer Services Executive, you must have to be good with people, with relationships, helping your clients garner the best from their investments, you know the importance of interpersonal relationships and human interfacing," and as always he apologised: "not best, dear, most, sorree, force of habit, just keeping it right, sorree, never mind the quality - feel the width, it's not about people, dear, just money, not just money, sorree, only money, but they all consider me little more than a weevil, a dogsbody, a little cog in the machine, sorree," for he realised that he was taking her attention, and she resumed: "they all think I'm a stuffed shirt, stoney-hearted, lacking compassionate and empathy, but it's just that I've never been really excited by another before, really touched," and Pip looked up sharply, wondering where exactly she may have been touched, "the Tangerine has passion, determination, charisma, strength, vim and vigour, she's a real whizzo - when we stroll in the moonlight in Downing Street, she in her Balaclava and waving her cat-o-nine-tails about, me in her personal space, I feel more alive than ever before - I showed her my drum-kit in the attic and demonstrated and she applauded and shouted, 'yer a natteral, Theresa, so ye are, I’m gettin ye lessons on the Lambeg, an ye'll lead the Walk on the twelfth', imagine, Pip, the First Prime british Minister, to play the Lambeg Drum, on the first ever Orange Walk down Whitehall from Trafalgar Square, along Downing Street, to Horse Guards parade, where the Queen is going to Review the Walk before we have Belfast Stout, Belfast Ham sandwiches, and glasses of Bushmills to toast her Majesty and then sing The Mason's Apron, The Ould Orange Flute, King Billy's Over The Boyne and The Sash My Father Wore! out of touch? remote? lacking in empathy? well I don't think so, Baby – this is the Brand-New Born-Again Theresa Maybe-Maybenot, Strong and Stable just like my Arse!"
"I know what you are thinking, Pip," snapped the PM at her petite husband, as he stood balancing her breakfast tea-pot in one hand, and the breakfast tray in the other. "you think I'm in sway to the Pasha of the DUP, don't you?" and as his mouth opened like a goldfish, but before any bubbles appeared, Theresa went on, "you think I'm haywire to put Parliament in the hands of a Balaclava-wearing Billy-Girl from the Six Counties, don't you?" and as his mouth closed again, she took a deep breath and said, "the truth, my Little Pip, is that I am besotted with her, head-over-heels smitten by her, ever since she gave me a Balaclava and slipped it over my head, I knew, that as wimmin go, Tangerine Foster is sui generis," and as the sad little man looked bleakly at her, she explained, "as they say on the Falls Road, 'she's her own mon' and that makes her mon enuff fer me!"
The days and nights of attempting to negotiate an agreement with the Balaclava-wearing rent-seeking Pasha of the DUP, Tangerine Foster, supported by the Grand Master of the Orange Order of Ulster had given Theresa Maybe-Maybenot the yips, as little Pipkin, her diminutive husband observed when he brought in her morning boiled egg and toast soldiers and saw her agitated demeanour as she expostulated with someone on the red-white-and-blue Prime Ministerial telephone: "an Orange walk along Downing Street on the 12th? absolutely, categorically, unequivocally, definitively not very likely to happen unless you can give me unqualified, cast-iron, positive indications of reasonable assurances to be forthcoming that this will be a one-off event and unlikely to be repeated more than once a year . . . . . and a band? flutes and drums? how many accompanying? oh, I see, and will they all require refreshments? well we could have trestle-tables on Horse Guards, yes, just across the way at the back, oh I'm sure it can accommodate several thousand, but I'll need to check with the Guards, oh, you have already? and they are okay about it? well, in that case, I can't think of any objections, certainly Grand Master, we'll look forward to it then, goodbye, Fuck the Pope!" and as she replaced the receiver, she gave such an involuntary shudder that Pipkin feared an epileptic seizure, and she turned, saw him and said: "the fucking Billy Boys have me over a barrel, Pip, those Balaclava-wearing cunts are going to shag me till I squeak! get me a triple Bushmills and make it snappy!"
Little Pipkin Maybe-Maybenot sat on the bed and gazed raptly at his wife, as she read a first draft of next week's Queen's Speech, delivered in the wee small hours of the morning by a balaclava-wearing messenger of Tangerine Foster, the loquacious Ayatollah of the Democratic Unionist Partly, junior members in what even he had begun to think of as the Coalition of Chaos: "it is with great respect, begorrah," and Pipkin marvelled at Theresa's impersonation of Her Majesty, whose cadences she had off to a T, "that we recall the immortal words of our Lord, Bejasus Christ, in his First Letter to the Alphabetarians in the town of Ballymackadoodledoo, confirming the trothplight of all Loyal Orange Unionists to the United Kingdom of Northern Ireland and Great Britain, which embody the eternal welcome we extend to our dearest, closest and most preciousest Friends and Colleagues, although they are not included in the Holy Bible due to the scurrilous contrivance of the Pope of Rome, on whom we spit, and his bedfellow the Whore of Babylon, on whose image we trample, nevertheless this logion warms all my Subjects' hearts on this day as we reverently repeat them now: 'if yese're Protestant Irish, come into the Parlour, me boyoes, there's a Welcome here for youse'!"
Of course, the waitresses in the Balaclavas were to make the guests feel at home, handing out Irish Whiskey and a gallimaufry of Soda Breads and Belfast hams, and when the Tangerine with the faintest of moues, drew her own Balaclava from her handbag and pulled it over her head, it was clear to the Prime Minister that she had calculated correctly: this was the sort of Horse Trading the DUP Leader was used to and it was a tacit indicator that both women knew where the other was coming from – Theresa Maybe-Maybenot might not be a ball-breaker in the way the Tangerine was, but she knew how to twist pubes to get her own way; and for her part, the Irishwoman was not quite so Bog Irish as Theresa had expected – she was University educated, had practised as a lawyer in the Falls Road and had smelt cordite on the work-clothes of the UDA men she hobnobbed with: she was no virgin when it came to hard-ball and had no qualms about exerting just the right amount of pressure to let the other party pretend she was dominant while getting the baksheesh in her own way: in other words, while the PM was the Champion and Title-Holder with all to lose, the Tangerine was the sibylline Underdog with everything to gain and both women knew it! but when the DUP Leader, in what was almost an aside, and had no relevance to any of the other strictly Northern Ireland/Sectarian demands she had made, hissed "and thon Burkha things them Mooslem wimmin wear, that ye canna see they'se faces 'cept fer their eyes, it's a definate no-no, a total ban forfend," the PM tried to read the eyes which were the only feature of the other face visible to her, but they were a dead thing and no window to their owner's soul.
"I got us into this mess," said Prime Minister Theresa Maybe-Maybenot, to the dregs of her Party, now Loyal Members of her Cupboard, ranged around the table in the Cupboard Room of Number 10, "and I am the only Strong and Stable person who can get us out of it I fucking kid ye not cause you creeps don't have the fucking balls to do it on your own and this is how it's gonna be!" which was when the humblebrag Michael Glove-Puppet raised his small hand and coughed, and she glared at the temerity of the tiny man, barely tall enough for his chin to rest on the table-top when he stood on tip-toes – which was how he normally walked, in a forlorn effort to look people in the belly-button; Theresa sighed and said in that kindly voice, the one she had picked up from Sergeant-Majorette Agatha MacRoarie at her boarding school's Girl Officers Majorette Corps: "what the fuck is it now Mickey?" why was it, she wondered, that he always reminded her, not of Mickey Rooney, but rather, Mickey Mouse? it must, she thought, be to do with his pointed nose and the ears which were too large for his head; he coughed again, so often the indication that he had some sort of plea to make in mitigation for the outlandish ideas he loved to formulate – like 'the Sun is in orbit around the Earth', that 'Ancient Greek should be taught to babies from birth to three months', that schools should be banned from teaching 'engender politics' or that 'he term 'Free Schools' should be used for a revival of the 'Saturday Morning Pictures' he used to attend when he was an ABC Minor back in the glory days of his childhood when he was the same size as the other children, before he got the famous Fright – being stuck in the Ladies Loo for the entire programme and missing the concluding part of the 24-episode serial he had been following avidly and so looking forward to – and his growth-hormones packed in; "why don't you just fucking tell us what it is now?" she gently probed and he turned beetroot, and stammered: "if, as seems likely, we don't. that is, can't, or rather, won't, or should it be . . . . ." she glared: "spit it out man, or, on second thoughts, don't fucking spit on MY table!" and he swallowed the bile back, nervously: "well, Ma'am, I just thought of a wizard wheeze, that will catch them all on the hop and really back-foot them, and what I thought was, if the Queen's Speech can't be written yet and we want to put it off for a bit, till we've got the, err, whirling Dervish, Tangerine on-side, how about, you announce . . . . ." and he waited. seemingly listening to an imaginary drum-roll . . . . . "a Surprise General Election? it would bankrupt the other parties and give us the opportunity to leapfrog everyone else and get the kind of landslide majority which would provide you, Ma'am, with the Mandate for Strong and Stable government and give you carte blanche to negotiate a Final Countdown to quitting the EU!" and he looked around at his colleagues and seemed, for the first time, to register stony faces and dead eyes, and he mumbled: "just a thought, off the top of my head," and sat down, the top of that head barely visible under the edge of the table!
"But she hardly knows you, dearest one," said Pipkin Maybe-Maybenot - otherwise known as The Prime Minister's husband, mainly because there isn't much else for him to be known as - and he flinched as Theresa threw a crystal decanter at him, something she oftentimes was wont to do and snarled: "whaddaya mean by that you fucking prelapsarian Pipsqueak are you saying I look more like a fucking Tranny and now I've got Boris the Horrible pledging me his 'absolute fucking support' which sounds like he's already sharpening the fucking axe and saying the election result was a 'stunning fucking achievement' which translates as 'she snatched defeat from the jaws of fucking victory' the man's a fucking Janus he can look in opposite directions at the same fucking time and that Orange cunt Margarine doesn't realise she's only a fucking satrap and I'm the Big Boss Lady and she says if we give them a brown fucking envelope with unmarked fucking notes they'll agree to anything why the fuck didn't we think of that before the election no fucking need to campaign just give every voter a brown envelope and we'd have fucking romped in those fucking twats I'm glad they've gone now I can show every cunt just how fucking Strong and Stable I can be so if that Lezzie Bitch wants repre-fucking-sensitive I'll give her repre-fucking-sensitive no fucking problem David Bumble's the fucking Queer Amber Gambler's a fucking Tranny and I'm Out and Proud as a fucking Lezzie that'll knock them all for six and if that fucking Orange Margarine wants a bag stuffed with cash she can fucking get down on her hands and fucking knees and lick my fucking lips for it and if her fucking bog Irish tongue gives me a fucking good killer poke she just might get her cash because the fucking country voted for a Coalition of fucking Chassis and I'll give them a Coalition of fucking Chassis so Classy they'll never forget ME!
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