BY JOHN NASH

As the old year drew to a chilly close and the shadowy fingers of the dark half of the year took their last crepuscular grasp before the re-birth of the sun and the re-Birth of the Son, something very ominous began to stir. A tremble began upon the grave of that dead, addled Private Members Bill to Ban the Importation of Hunting Trophies, Henry Smith’s illegitimate child, that was mercifully euthanised last year in the Upper House. Alas, well before the artificial flowers and crocodile tears of animal rights (AR) placed upon it wilted away, and well before there was even time to erect a public urinal on it as a suitable headstone, something shivered. Tiny stones and small earthen balls began to roll in ones and twos as the decomposing mound began to swell, slowly and almost imperceptibly, like the ground around Grindavik just before eruption. 

Soon, cracks appeared in the soil and before long, the familiar smell of sulphur, infused with the stench of Portuguese rodent, rose from the grave and dissipated ominously into the capital.

In invisible wisps of putrescence, the brain-rotting grave gas soon seeped into every crook and nanny for miles around, especially those in the Lower House of the Westminster Asylum, awaking again a dreadful once-dead zombie army. Back in his lair, hidden beneath a huge pile of donations in his modestly-styled “International Foundation” cult headquarters, the aroma reached the Gobellian Prince of Darkness, Eduardo Con-çalves, High Priest of Hubris, Rasputin of the Rubberheads and Autarch of the AR souls. With nostrils flared, he cried out to the forces of evil, imploring his undead followers to rise again. And rise they did, Dear Readers. It’s time to re-light those flaming torches.

^{Eduardo Gonçalve$, Lynx nurturer}

Deep in the bowels of the Westminster Asylum, rats and mice threw themselves into the Thames as the grating sound of granite lids sliding off the sarcophagi of the asinine corpses of the undead mules from Gonçalves’ once-defunct willing-donkey farm called  “The All Party Parliamentary Group on Banning Trophy Hunting” (APPG) crawled from their composting slumber and shuffled to their feet, arms outstretched, moaning, braying and beseeching their master to lead them once again. 

Craftier this time, to avoid the Speaker’s crucifix, garlic and silver-capped boot, the mouldy APPG crypt-dwellers immediately cloaked themselves in a WordPress private website to hide from public view – now you have to ask if you wish to view their bible, mocking the very spirit of Parliamentary standards of transparency, just as they did before.

In truth, they never went away –  their rule breaking, dishonest Epistle of Deceit, “Trophy Hunting & Britain: The Case for a Ban: A report of the All-Party Parliamentary Group on Banning Trophy Hunting” is still on sale at Amazon, with the hilariously delusional strapline, “Dozens of the world’s top scientists, conservationists and African community leaders are urging the British Government to press ahead with its proposed ban on hunting trophies”.

Believed to be translated from the original Portuguese, it is a gospel according to LACS (Loons Against Cruel Sports, Gonçalves’ former seat as CEO), published for the edification and absolution of AR souls and bunny-huggers “by the APPG”.

Pull the other one, Eduardo.

There is still exorcism work for Sir Lindsay Hoyle, Speaker of The House and the last remaining Labour MP with his marbles intact thanks to deep roots in Chorley.

Meanwhile, the awful miasma spread further to do its dirty work. Soon, with the ominous sound of a creaking door, crust and crumble John Spellar MP rose obediently to his feet, his eyeless sockets blind to reality. Brazen grave-robber, he shook the maggots from the newly-dug husk of Henry Smith’s dead Private Member’s Bill and, with the assistance of his expensive Welsh gimp, MP Tami (Whinette), set about methodically pulling out the 60 odd silver nails beaten into the damned thing by the Noble Lords’ golden hammer of Truth and Reality last year. 

The resulting holes allowed the evil grave-gas to seep back into the terrible remnant and thus invigorated, it stirred into life. As soon as it twitched, Spellar and Tami, submissive to their master, promptly signed the birth certificate with the aid of a brown nose and adopted the foul child as their own new Private Member’s Bill. The reborn wretch, shown to the House, has not yet muttered a word, no doubt waiting to be taught to speak by High Priest Gonçalves, but it is already scheduled for a Second Reading in March 2024. 

Sadly, there’s more…in a cloud of skin flakes and dust, answering the call of that repulsive catalyst, up rose Bent Gaze, Deputy Political Editor of the manky Mirror, a man so-named because his mind and thus his vision of reality have been bent skew-whiff and sanity effectively destroyed by the arsenical words of evil-eye AR soul Gonçalves. Seeking to serve his master, Bent Gaze shook the dust off another foul corpse of one of his older long-dead pets, a totally faked news piece about “killing reindeer at Christmas” and republished it – another fake new-exposé-cunning-stunt to spoil everyone’s goodwill and merriment this season. Undaunted by the trivial effort of making mincemeat porky-pies out of truth, he loudly proclaimed the return of the undead Bill. Unlike journalists of old, who once had erudition and taste, this poor AR soul has no shame.

And so, the venal infection spreads anew, carried by social intercourse into the unsuspecting public by a viral spore-cloud on social media and in the form of a petition, willingly spread throughout the land. Twenty thousand have already signed it … or, more likely, ‘Dr’ Tingay and her troll army of demented grannies have been busy filling in multiple copies using proxies.

 So, they are back, mes braves.

Do not think that scientific fact will save you. Do not imagine that real ecology will save you. These are Zombies like those from Plato’s cave.

The civilian residents of our Western cave have no idea what reality is nor do they understand the objectivity required to manage reality and sustainably extract the vast resources necessary for the cave to function. Bent Gaze stokes vehemence from the pulpit of the Daily Mirror, while they sit indoors in ungrateful, blissful, well-fed ignorance, singing the hymns of Junk Prophets like Gonçalves who pass among them with bottomless collection plates. The APPG’s allies include the Campaign to Ban Trophy Hunting (Income very secret), Animal Defenders International (Income £484,000), Born Free Foundation (Income £5.6 million), FOUR PAWS UK (Income £4.3 million), Humane Society International-UK (HSI Income £1.8 million, Parent Organisation HSUS Income $159 million), LionAid (Income £77,000), and World Animal Protection (Income £38 million). 

With that kind of cheddar available, they can afford overwhelming propaganda, “commissions” and “sponsorships”. With that kind of cheddar available they can buy whatever ‘truth’ they want.

There will be no justice for you. In a democracy, that kind of truth motivates “indoor” civilians and indoor civilians outnumber the rural population 6:1. Civilians choose the MP’s, MP’s make the laws, the laws govern judges and judges dispense justice. In a world where physical truth no longer matters, information becomes fiction because fiction is much easier to produce than fact. In such a world, equality of access to opportunity and the race to improvement dies – it’s too difficult. It’s replaced with the destruction of opportunity, equality of outcome and a race to the bottom. Why climb the mountain when you can sit on your arse and criticise? 

The West is now in the information age, listening to the squeaks of the bats in the belfry. The zombie apocalypse is upon us. Unless you close ranks, make a fuss and shout loudly enough to frighten the bats away and infuse civilian information with some real empirical truth, these vampires will suck the life out of you. This is not the time to rely on truth or justice – they are both being “re-interpreted” as we speak. This is not the time to be quiet and polite and hope they will go away. They won’t – but you will shout loudly enough when it’s too late and the thankless, parentless mob ties you to the stake as fuel to warm the cave.

Shout loudly, Squires. Civilisation deserves better than to die at the hands of the AR souls and their Godless, rubberhead sect.

John Nash grew up in West Cornwall and was a £10 pom to Johannesburg in the early 1960’s. He started well in construction project management, mainly high-rise buildings but it wasn’t really Africa, so he went bush, prospecting and trading around the murkier bits of the bottom half of the continent. Now retired back in Cornwall among all the other evil old pirates. His interests are still sustainable resources, wildlife management and the utilitarian needs of rural Africa.