Boring Politics : Lebedevs Point

Recently there has been a catch penny game going on locally as the elections for the ‘super’ councils and European elections loom into view.
In the background politically the spatially challenged, they don’t get a big office, figure out and contrast the deception qualities of their functionaries the politicians or Councillors or MLA’s as they exchange batons either through heftily loftily hurled cranium blows in inhouse confrontations and backstabbing contests and elicit the rota for Election. From what crevice or peace line wall can a Batwoman or Batman hang with their upside down view of the world? East or further West. Russian Facism or American Corpratism?  You might think you decide.
The crayon diagrams of the last acquired skill academy they actively engaged with, primary; the later institutions were a breeze of rote, are presented to the assistant headmaster who using the same skills but using highlighter pen in order not to look conspicuous on the school bus home sets to the shamy mandering hierarchy and aspirational accounting and politically shape-forming sets about drawing the layers of the pyramid while taking the traditional route home on the 13.

The basic outline is fluidly agreed. After all this is also another primary skill, that of building sand castles. Instantly I am reminded of a pre Assembly election cartoon, someone out there must have kept a copy before the ubiquity of the apps and I hope it turns up, was of the parties on the beach.

Some were drifting out offshore, others dipping their toes in the water.
Former combatants were sharing mugs of tea on their shared towel with a biscuit, jammy dodgers I think, past their sell by date. Wannabee combatants were knocking two bells out of each other and the women were justly outraged and screaming as the kids looked like drowning. OK it might not have included such details but it contained variations thereof. One memorable one was of the party flip- flop Ms. Bradshaw talking to some new friend while Mr Parsley sat astride a groyne not knowing which side of the sea-defence he preferred to sit on. The gaze was hypnotic, in fact he – the cartoonist was so gifted – looked out of a politically empty brain box.
He might have been wearing Blue tinted sunglasses, the ones he bought on Tory Island.

Was there also a King Canute? Mr Paisley or was he on the retirees section of the beach looking after the water wings and grandchildren. I can’t remember and he most probably has forgotten as he seems to have forgotten many things just recently, I’m the same, memory not what it was.
One or two members were heading of also to the nudist beach hand in hand but we only caught a sight of their inflated egos. Probably of to do their own thing taking precautions in case they are caught with their pants down.
I would warn them the Maram grass could give them a nasty rash and grass burns but they are near the quicksand and I won’t risk it.

What about today? Is the beach deserted? Has climate change swept up Sammy with the masses of dulse and kelp? Is he out collecting litter in the environmental health committee again looking after bins and parks.
He had this idea of renaming the twin park, Alexandra Park, you know the one with the diving fence through it, Rosa Parks but the bus driver wouldn’t let him on without his proper colored pass. Sammy must be a martyr to saddle sores now they’ve talked the Dundonald Taxi off him.
Talking of parks, some beano took the roses down to a foot off the ground in one of our splendid parks across all beds! I saw a Pup running around confused at the behaviour of a bat. One looked like Lord Carson the other looked like Les Dennis but twice as funny and both were flagging running around in circles. Both looked on the edge of tears if they didn’t get to fetch the big stick off of each other. Thank goodness there was a Park Attendant with some weed to feed them. Last time they were slapping some paint or other territory maker on the lamposts and chasing down dogs they didn’t like. It was barking mad and if it weren’t for the fact there isn’t a scrap of grass in our estate I wouldn’t come near it. Our estate has a new speed trail like the one in Rostrevor. We must ask Niaomi Campbell to get us one with trees and things like that. But she is off modelling meringue outfits in London any time I pass her office.

Back to the beach. A bloke called Richard (Hass we’ll call him as he is nothing but a hassle) but anyway he is standing there at the waters edge saying something about where the bodies are buried. He explains he wants them to remain buried and wait until archeologists of the NWO turn them up when the beach has become a car park for Martian tourists. Nige tells him it will just be like them digging up Richard the 3’s head in that Leicester car park. Nelson butts in and says it really belongs in York you know. York has a higher claim because Monarchially it has governance. Dicky thinks they may as well be talking about North Korea for all he knows. Anyway so long as his NY bankers friends and G8 Bildenberg guys accept the interest charges are not nama’ed and secure he’ll keep the boats afloat.
The Queen’s boat is apparently moored off shore or is it a Titanic replica? Marty says the Titanic thing is a masouleum for ideas and Marty asks the dog he is playing beach cricket with “I wonder what floats her boat?”
The suit tells him she has been told to visit the Causeway but is in a strop because she agreed to shake hands only on the basis she could visit Coolmore and the Irish National stud. It did not come as a shock to her the majority of people were nice but it’s pushing it to socalise a bit with them.
The NIO man said as they were very helpful in past wars and we loved each other really she would like to come here more often, maybe ride her horse from Carrickfergus to the Boyne. The traffic is terrible though at Troopers Lane and Mountpottinger is chaos each morning.
Pete has obtained planning permission for a set of stables on his land at Craigantlet which is very handy. Horses for courses he says to himself apparently when he’s in the bath, so the tittle tattle goes, and he much prefers that immersion to the itchy back scratching ceremonies on the glowed coast.

Marty asked the NIO man what his name was and the suit told him frankly I can’t.
Quick as a flash (Harry) Marty chipped “So your Frankly ICount”. Nearly as bad as your real name, I know I’ve got my inside boyo’s everywhere.
Bob Gascoyne-Cecil it is isn’t it? Dave’s yer uncle eh!
Across the beach UKIP Tiling works was calling out to a wet floating off like a Progressive Democrat to he Maldives, it looked like one bobbin’ about floater Basil. The shout out was “Your out of your depth” – he was in one foot of water, for which the reply came “I’m trying to catch my crayfish dinner.”
At the lo water mark there was a woman with a long stick marking out a map of the world putting in all the colonies. She might have know the evidence would be wiped out come the next tide but she was making a hames of it as Northern Ireland was twinned with Crimea or someplace apparently near Odessa Street.
Another woman fired up on the Moy chicken Kievs was sitting on top of a twelve foot drill, no kidding, she was astride it like a bucking bronco, like a heifer on heat and spinning like a top shouting something like “Fracking Marvelous, Fracking Marvelous”. A green leprechaun came along telling her to stop. The noise wasn’t allowing him to think and the sewage struck was full of farmers nitrates and St Patricks day tins and tourist garbage.
The children noticed all this and began clearing up shredded paper (illegally dumped election leaflets, bill revision, enquiry papers and lots of shredded plastic stuff, plastic bags etc. Bits of dog biscuits and broken China etc, etc.
You’d be amazed what they can dig up in this place.
One turned to the other and said “You never find crayons anymore”
Junior said “It because the adults need them, me da says.”
Topper said back “It waxes but it never wains”

Me Ma said the other night, haven’t figured out what she meant yet, “Hold on to your dreams son, keep sleeping.”

Oh and Lebdev, well he’s a Russian Oligarch and his boat hasn’t come in here yet.

John Graham

Belfast

21 March 2014.

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