I was recently reminded of my old livejournal days. A friend and I used to write nonsence fairytales paragraph each via email. This soon graduated into writing stories on a challenge, ie. positioning friends into historical situations etc. So this is one such story, a part-tim communist, a beautiful man, a member of the Scottish Socialist Party, who hadn’t read The Communist Manifesto but kept it by the bathtub on spoken word cassette; he was my muse, enjoy. (I’m shocked to find this site is still active and this story is still on the greater web.)
Once upon a time in a far off land of factories and farms and smelly poor fairies and fat rich fairies and red flags and blintzes and…..; there lived a handsome young fairy called Red-Ralph. Red-Ralph wasn’t particularly poor, nor particularly smelly. He wasn’t even particularly rich or fat. In fact, all the other little poor smelly fairies would poke fun at Red-Ralph “You’re not poor” or “You’re not smelly”. So Red-Ralph’s parents, having noticed how troubled their little fairy prince was; sent Red-Ralph to a school for the fat rich children. And, yes that’s right, you guessed it boys and girls “You’re not rich” and “You’re not fat” And so it went on until Red-Ralph was old enough to go to the jobcentre where he would spend his time in the twice weekly restart groups learning all about Microsoft Word and Applications Forms and CV’s and VD. But none of this bothered Red-Ralph as now he was surrounded by people like him, too rich to work in the factory and too poor to be playing polo with the rich fatties.
Red-Ralph was a very generous young fairy who would share everything he owned or help out anyone in trouble whenever necessary. And even better than that, he never hurt a fly. Well, that’s not strictly true, there was the 13-day war when Red-Ralph and his well-meaning, and rather well-armed Red-Friends set fire to the rich peoples homes, stole all their belongings and dragged them for miles behind their own limousines. Well, their houses were too big and everyone else was cold so when the houses burned all the smelly people with typhoid and cholera gathered round the fires and got all lovely and toasty. (Nobody thought about putting the poor cold people in the lovely big houses – something to do with symbols of totalitarianism they said – this storyteller thinks they just wish they had thought of it first). And perhaps you think stealing their belongings was mean but the rich fat folks wouldn’t have noticed, they had far too much already. And you should’ve seen the gross fatties being dragged behind the limos while Red-Ralph and his friends played their trumpets and banged their drums and tried to resist the kind of decadent celebration involving wine and food and young nubile strumpets, (that’s Reddish Newspeak for pretty young girls) they detested the fat rich folk for.
But why would they do these horrible things to the rich fattys? Surely they only had those big houses and flashy cars because they had been good little fairies who went to school and listened to the smelly-breathed teachers and spent many hours in the local jobcentre and Monday restart groups trying to find themselves a good job. Nah, don’t be silly, they got all they had by centuries (donkey years) of exploiting (Reddish Newspeak for the shaft) the poor people who they made work in their factories and farms for little more than a couple of potatoes and the soap suds scraped out of the rich fatty’s bottoms; And as if that wasn’t degrading (Newspeak for icky) enough, the rich fatties would flaunt their flashy cars and their Rock of Gibraltar bellies down the dilapidated streets of the poor folks as often as they could, dodging the yucky buckets of bottom-goop being thrown from upper-floor windows and running people over rather than stopping; the poor people were well-known for the pleasure they received when throwing their buckets of bottom-goop at the rich fattys.
A few months after the 13-day war with the fatty’s – and a few days of poking their bellies with very pointy sticks – everything was back to normal. They poor people went to work then went home to their smelly little tenement buildings (they had outside toilets, eewww) and ate their mashed potatoes whilst picking the hair out of their complimentary bars of soap. But they were much happier now. Why? Well, I’ll tell you. Red-Ralph and his red-friends had created a land where all were equal and all was fair with everyone doing what they could for each other and everyone getting the same amount of potatoes and bum-fluffy soap. A few questions were asked where the bum-fluffy soap came from, but these questions weren’t heard as it was difficult to get into the only remaining mansion where Red-Ralph and his Red-Friends were staying – apparently they didn’t want to have to disturb the family dynamic by moving into one of the tenements and apparently their own tenements had burned down in mysterious insurance related fires. (From then on no poor people ever paid insurance, “I mean really, imagine your insurance company burning down your home” they all grumbled).
Years went by with plenty of potatoes to spare – some of the excess was used to create a mash potato mountain somewhere in the EU, (none of the poor smellies knew where this was as it was hard to buy holidays or even atlas with potatoes and bum-fluffy soap) of which it was promised that all the poor scurvy-ridden kids would get to slide down once it was finished. Even the dreaded typhoid and cholera were almost wiped out with only the people who could die, and those who needed to die from these diseases were obliged to.
All in all it was a happy little land, Red-Ralph was a hero to all and they even celebrated his birthday by renaming the 29th of February as Red-Ralph Tuesday, a joyful day when the poor would get together in Red Square, in front of Red Towers (Red-Ralph’s most un-humble-like home) and make blintzes to be eaten by the great man himself. All they had to do was sacrifice one weeks-worth of bum-fluffy soap to pay for the ingredients. Obviously the poor didn’t mind this sacrifice for the man who had freed them from the evil shackles of the fatty-rich folk and made them all equal.
A month after the first Red-Ralph Tuesday and it was Marx day again. Marx was Red-Ralph’s hero. Marx was a funny looking fairy from Germania who liked to spend a lot of his time in London drinking Pimms and playing Bacarat, but he was also the man who had written the great Red-Fairy Manifesto about how to make the poor be equal and give you whatever you needed, and sometimes vice-versa. Red-Ralph often spoke about Marx, from the safety of his White Meter Heated condo in Red Towers (well it was of a good elevation and provided the appropriate arena for transporting the gospel of Equalology to the masses) of how Marx had inspired him to give the poor the wondrous potato-filled existence they had today. Often the people would question Red-Ralph “Why do we only ever get potatoes as our pay?” “Why do we only get our smelly little tenements with the outdoor toilets?” “Why aren’t they’re more naked children on TV?” This gentleman, Fred the weatherman, was quickly arrested and put in jail equally with equally vile criminals before Red-Ralph answered:
“Don’t you also have the bum-fluffy soap?”
Once again, the great political thinker of his day had shown why he was more equal than them. Satisfied, the crowd dispersed, receiving an extra flake of bum-fluffy soap before being searched on their way out of Red Square and cattle-prodded back to their tenements with the smelly outdoor toilets.
But when the arrived at their tenements, something was amiss. The streets were awash with large-bellied men with bright, curly red hair and great floppy shoes and big red noses handing out little polystyrene boxes with a clowns face and large letter M on them. The poor were hesitant to open these little treasures but the sweet meaty smell was too much to resist and they opened their polystyrene boxes.
And behold, there it was in all its glory, a sesame seed bun encasing two prime beef patty’s with cheese, onion, lettuce and special sauce. “Now this is equality they thought”. “Stuff this up your fluffy soap hole, Red-Ralph”.
And the poor munched on their savoury treats with fervour and were then handed plastic cups containing a dark, syrupy liquid with little chunks of frozen water and some kind of cylindrical drinking apparatus which made everyone’s cheeks (not those ones, well, maybe if you suck hard enough) look so comical. And there were the French Fries, which quite frankly weren’t as nice as the Burger King crunchier King Fry so the fries were tossed aside and left for the less equal of the poor dogs to devour. And thus the celebrations continued into the wee hours with much burping and farting and throwing away of the nasty pickles.
In the morning, well, more like late afternoon after a lot of Imodium was imbibed, the poor trudged through the litter of polystyrene towards Red Towers and demanded the presence or Red-Ralph. Red-Ralph had got hard of hearing in these later years and even felt the occasional pang of guilt for his being more equal, and confused the poor people’s aggression with worship. He threw on his best Prada jacket and marched down the stairs to Red Square where he was welcomed with a hail of blintzes from all angles. Blintzes with nails in them. Blintzes with sharpened edges. Even chemical warfare blintzes (these belonged to the people who couldn’t get their hands on any Imodium). Red-Ralph didn’t stand a chance. He was dragged to his own prison and was left the only prisoner after all the perverts, rapists, thieves, paki-bashers and crime thriller writers were released to once more be equal in society.
Only a few weeks later Blue-Bobby, a greedy little fairy who had the biggest belly you’ll ever see; who had become the incredibly equal leader of the revolution against Red-Ralph, revealed his plan to punish Red-Ralph for hiding the wondrous beef patty from them for so long. And so it was that Red-Ralph was marched to the strange looking new building in Red Square where he was giving a uniform, a brief video on health and safety and was released onto the shop floor to begin his punishment in community service.
“Good afternoon and welcome to MacDonalds Drive-Thru, my names Red-Ralph, may I take your order?”