A Letter In Another World

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Last night, on my way home from work, I decided to change my plans completely and at Kings Cross St. Pancras Station I took a Northern Line train via Charing Cross…

I stepped off the carriage at Leicester Square and skipping my way through the people there, I made my way up to the street. Taking a right, and being careful to avoid the black-hole gazes of the commuters around me, I wondered into Trafalgar Square. It was there, by the Fourth Plinth, that my eyes were suddenly drawn to a small, white rectangle on the floor. I walked over, stopped and held it before me. It was letter, unsealed but the ink on the front was clearly fresh. All that was written was the word ‘Giddy’ in a majestic sprawl of circles and dots, the kind of handwriting used only by those with too much time or too much education. As I turned it over, I saw in large red letters ‘For Your Eyes Only’. In keeping with my evening of spontaneity, I opened the envelope, removed the letter and began to read.

Dear Giddy,

Let me start first by saying a big congratulations to you. You’ve done at again, and I don’t know why I ever doubted you. Your latest budget was impeccable in every way, keeping the rich richer and the poor poorer, just as we have always wanted since our time together at Oxford. Ah, I remember those days with such clarity, save for our evenings at the Union bar with those large pints of scrumpy. We never could stop, could we Gids? As we speak, I’m sipping on a rather aromatic IPA. Before you wonder, yes I know where my daughter is. She’s nowhere to be seen! Ha ha ha! I never will live that down, I know, but you try keeping track of your offspring after a plate of Gammon, Egg and Chips and seven Guinness’s. I really can’t be blamed.

On the subject of alcohol, and here lies the root of my congratulations, you’ve done something very special. The penny you knocked off the price of beer? Ingenious. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen the internet records of just about every teenage boy in the country. If there’s one way to keep the proles beneath our boots, it’s by giving them more money to spend on the one thing we know sedates the masses. Alcohol is our kryptonite. Without all the fermented sugar people adore shoving down their throats, they’d realise what an absolute mess our Government is going to leave this country in. They’d be annoyingly unhappy and I for one have a future in public speaking I need to protect. I can’t be dealing with a revolution Giddy, I really can’t. We must keep this suppression of intelligent thought alive. That’s also the reason why we simply cannot legalise cannabis. Do you remember the utopian ideas we had after a few puffs on the old green? Dangerous they were, dangerous. What were we thinking? I laugh now that we even considered a world without war. It’s hilarious that we even entertained the idea of protecting the elderly and the vulnerable. No, no, no. There’s no time for that, Giddy. The future of this great country lies in the hands of the banks.  And let’s not forget who controls those hands…

At this point, I looked up from the page and stared out at the Square below me. I wondered if I should carry on reading. I knew I’d already read too much. What I was about to read, whoever it was that was about to be revealed as the true puppetmaster, was surely to change my life forever. This wasn’t a secret I could hold tightly to my chest, and yet, like most other people, I liked my life. I didn’t want it to change. I like working as a company secretary. Just today I was reading that it’s one of the most satisfying jobs in the country and I whole heartedly agree. I adore simplicity. No sugar, just milk thank you. Vanilla, not strawberry. You can sympathise, can’t you? But no, it’s already too late. I had to carry on. I had to find out.

And let’s not forget who controls those hands. Kanye, Kanye, Kanye. As you read this, don’t forget to say his name three times Giddy. He’s listening and watching and we can’t afford to anger him. We already owe him for not taking a shot at us and that masterful piece of brainwashing known as Yeezus. What I’m trying to get at here is that we’re all in this together. By we’re I mean of course that group that the proles are still referring to as the 1% but that we shall continue to refer to as ‘The Golden Alpha Chosen Overlords.’ GACO. It’s got a ring to it, it always has.

I hope this letter finds you well Giddy. I know we see each other fairly often, but something about sitting down to write just makes it so much easier to speak to you. So often are we under the Sauron stare of the media that I find it difficult to be myself around you. This evening I shall be taking a walk from Number 10, through the Square and Soho to a marvellous little restaurant called Honest Burger. The burgers are simply sublime, but I have to eat in a Reebok tracksuit and wear novelty sized sunglasses so I don’t find myself covered in both my drink and my food. If I’m feeling up to it, I might pay Boris a visit, but then I hear he has a new squeeze so he’s likely too busy for me. We’re keeping up the facade that we’re respectful enemies, it sells Murdoch’s papers you see and he needs as much cash as he can get before his whole business crumbles under the weight of stolen telephone records. I did warn them not to, but you know those media types, they never listen.

In any case, it’s been a pleasure old friend and it will continue to be.

For now,


Carefully, I stood up. I put the letter in my bag, and pondered my next move. In true British tradition, I found the nearest pub and ordered a pint of Smithwicks. As the lady behind the bar poured my pint, I stared at myself in the mirror that ran behind the liquors. On the television, the BBC news at 6 O’Clock showed flickering images of George Osbourne delivering his budget. I tried to fathom what I’d read as I saw him speak, though no sound emerged from the box. I tried, I tried, I tried to comprehend, but all I could think of was one thing.

‘What a load of bollocks.’

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