Of Incontestable Arguments

A global political, and commercial enterprise has been brought to a dead halt, by the disappearance of Her Majesty’s Railway Servants, and the Royal Dock Workers of London. Where ever can they be? Not idling at home surely! Why such hard grained men as these  work even on a Sunday! Passengers sit fretting on trains which can’t run themselves and all timetabled services have been suspended indefinitely. Cargo bound for the Indies lies heaped upon the dock; and in such a manner as to obstruct the best efforts of the most energetic clerk to negotiate his way past. What is to be done? The cargo cannot unload itself, any more than the trains can navigate their way from Paddington train station to Neyland.

But take a brisk stroll from the direction of the Liverpool Street Terminus, hop aboard a Hackney Cab bound for the Old Bailey and there you will have the solution to this puzzle. For you will get no further than Ludgate Hill, crammed as the thoroughway is with sluggish Omnibuses transporting reporters for the various London broadsheets, teeming as it is with stolid railway men and Royal Dockers, a prodigious profusion of them, stern and unsmiling and unyielding as the very metal the trains are made of! 

“Pray tell where are you bound?”

“To Newgate!” one man tersely replies and another and another, the march is slow, ponderous and heavy. The sound of their plodding feet? T’is as the rumble of underground thunder, t’is as the hammerings of the Greek God Vulcan upon the raw elements of the earth. To Newgate! The dwelling place of murderers, swindlers and those silk mill workers who dared to protest and riot against their meagre pay and working conditions. To Newgate! That point from whence hundreds of silk mill workers have been ferried to New South Wales, a place which even the denizens of hell have forsaken!

“Ours are the skills on which Her Majesty’s empire is built ! Our labours the fuel on which this empire is founded! And shall we forsake our brothers as they lie in chains for that very cause which is our own? Never! Why even now the orphans of our fallen comrades suffer for the sake of poor pay and worse conditions! Nay, their sufferings are our own! If we fail our comrades we fail ourselves! Let us march to Newgate!” And so they march dear reader, past St Martins of Ludgate, past the Old Bailey until, at length, they stand in front of the impenetrable walls of Newgate Prison.

Pitch darkness lit up by dozens and then hundreds of torches held aloft by men and children who have marched dozens of miles and would march thrice more to achieve their end, justice! Dear readers, justice of the purest and most beneficient kind for the much oppressed silk mill workers! “Can you see him da? Can you see him?” asks a weary, dust begrimed road sweeper arching his neck back in the hopes of viewing that near-legend whose stolid intransigence and fiery disposition has fueled many a protest and caused those who stand beside him to hope against reason. “Aye son, there he stands betwixt the prison walls! T’is The Union Rep!”

Well might you remark how, on such a night as this, it might be possible to espy a man perched on a prison wall and know who t’is. But the streets that surround Newgate Prison are lit up so fiercely that had the sun plummeted from its place in the heavens the streets could not shine more radiantly than they now do.”No chair behind the battlements for him!” declares a railway man his face lit up with fervour,”Nor sitting at rest with his missus whilst his workers suffer and fight for him! He is a man of true principle and truer purpose and I would travel to hell and back for the likes of him as stands up and fights for us! Hurrah for the Union Rep!” and that cry is echoed up and down the streets that encompass Newgate Prison, “Hurrah for the Union Rep!” the walls of Newgate Prison reverberate with the cry whilst the Old Bailey itself seems to shudder,”Hurrah for the Union Rep!”.

“When the union’s inspiration through the workers’ blood shall run
There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun;
Yest what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one,
But the union makes us strong.

Solidarity forever,

Solidarity forever,

Solidarity forever,

For the Union makes us strong.

Is there aught we hold in common with the greedy parasite,
Who would lash us into serfdom and would crush us with his might?
Is there anything left to us but to organise and fight?
For the union makes us strong.

Solidarity forever,

Solidarity forever,

Solidarity forever,

For the Union makes us strong.

All the world that’s owned by idle drones (ants!) is ours and ours alone.
We have laid the wide foundations; built it skyward stone by stone.
It is ours, not to slave in, but to master and to own.
While the union makes us strong.

Solidarity forever,

Solidarity forever,

Solidarity forever,

For the Union makes us strong.

They have taken untold millions that they never toiled to earn,
But without our brain and muscle not a single wheel can turn,
We can break their haughty power, gain our freedom when we learn
That the union makes us strong!”

Dear reader t’is a song of righteous fervour sung with such thrilling passion, such fervid ardour that it must chill the blood of every industrialist who hears it! Sung to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body Lies A-mouldering In His Grave’ t’is not possible to tell who brought forth the song first, but t’is possible to see those who move gently amongst us sustaining it! See there the scarlet tri-cornered hat! And those jet black tresses that gleam so lustrously in the torch light. T’is none other than Madame Guacamoley and with her Madame Le Breton (knitting in hand) and behind her a ragged and uncouth looking selection of women armed with cudgels and bludgers. Dawn is but a few hours away and as we cluster beneath the oppressive walls of Her Majesty’s ‘Bastille’ one cannot help but wonder how things will end…

Carpe Diem!

‘The tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me!’

-Alfred Tennyson Lord

Eliza Garrett is non-plussed, for Lords Molesworth is like a a devoted daschhund that having been kicked once, twice, nay, thrice a day, will insist upon waddling back to its master and slathering over his boots.

“Will ye leave go of my waist! Leave go of it! I’m warning yeah!” says she wriggling sufficiently out of his grasp to be able to reach backwards for the letter opener and put it to his throat,”You’ll not make a fallen woman out of me! I’ll slit your throat as soon as look at yeah! And get your hands off my bustle!” says she lashing out with a booted foot.

Panting and wide-eyed, Lord Molesworth does as he is bid, edging slowly away to the side of his Cherrywood desk, nearest the door. Eliza’s eyes narrow momentarily, for here she spies a second conundrum, how is she to pass through the narrow gap between the book case and the desk with her hands full of dishes and avoid his Lordship’s depraved wanderings? Backing slowly away from the potential  encounter (and adjusting her bicycle clipped skirts, so that her dress is bunched securely at the knees once more), Eliza perceives a means of escape; hurling two dinner plates at Lord Molesworth’s head and leaping over the desk, she manages to get to the door which is smoothly opened from outside by Fitchett, the butler. Fitchett smiling sweetly takes the dishes from her outstretched arms and thrusts her back into the room, “Silverware!” he bellows loudly before shutting the door and leaving her alone once more with Lord Molesworth. His Lordship is rapt, his eyes shine with love, his bewhiskered face is flushed, he trembles visibly.

“You are splendiforous Eliza!You are no beauty t’is true! But I thrill to you Eliza, as I have thrilled to no other! The very sight of you makes me feel as though the years are falling away from me, like a garment! Come here my gel! Embrace me!”

But Eliza is long gone having leapt back over the desk, dived for the silverware and wriggled out of the ground floor window. His face is flushed and his bosom heaving with repressed ardour as he climbs out of the window and follows her. Eliza sprints towards the hedge maze for once she has lost Lord Molesworth here, she is certain that she may proceed in peace through the rest of her day. But a’las it is not to be, for with every twist and turn of the maze Eliza becomes more and more lost until, at length, exhausted and confused, she finds herself trapped at its centre with no conceivable means of escape.

What to do? She examines the silverware in her pocket, pulls out a gleaming silver fork and hides herself in a hedge wall in readiness for his lordship’s emergence. Oh how have things come to such a pretty pass? She is a good girl full of good intentions, aspiring to one day run a boarding house along the Blackpool sea front! What appalling twist of fate could possibly have brought her to this?

“Eliza? Lizzie dearest!Where are you my love?”

Eliza waits until she has him full in her sights before emerging from the bushes and launching herself full upon him, there then ensues an epic struggle in the midst of which Eliza loses both fork and bicycle clips. Administering a hefty slap to his lordship’s cheeks causes his spectacles to fly off; indeed such is the ferocity of their encounter that it is safe to say that neither party dare exit the hedge maze in broad daylight, for fear of the scandal that might ensue.

“I’m ruined sir! Ruined! I’d slap you once more had I the strength!” and with that Eliza falls silent. Lord Molesworth surveys the prone figure of the exquisite housekeeper wistfully, what a woman! He feels and thinks these sentiments but dare’st not utter them, so apt to fly into a passion is she. And so there they lie, on the floor of the maze, panting with exhaustion and silent at length, each pondering the folly of the other, until, at last (and with much trepidation), Lord Molesworth asks Eliza if she will be his bride. Eliza rolls her eyes, has the man heard nothing she’s said?

“Will you free the workers unjustly imprisoned in Newgate? Do that and I’ll plight you my troth” declares she triumphantly as she leaps to her feet, for she is sure that this member of the moneyed classes will baulk at the very idea. Poor child! Wholly unenlightened as to the transformative effects of passion! “My love!” declares Lord Molesworth,

“My dearest Eliza! Ready yourself to marry me this Sunday hence!”

On The Subject Of Chimney Sweeps

“How long d’you think it’ll take them?” asked Bert,

“Oooh..not long” replied Boodoo, “Not long at all, the workers was already up in arms and what with that explosion, I wouldn’t fancy Lord Grid-Irons chances at all, he should have hiked it to the countryside but then there’s nowt so naive as the aristocracy” squinting off into the distance he could barely make out the orangey, pulsating, glow of the conflagration that had been St-Martin-In-The-Fields, dense grey-black smoke hovered above the spot. Boodoo felt exultant, with a little help from the Chimney- Sweeps this had been his best conflagration yet. And the fun wouldn’t end there, oh no, by this day’s end he would see the down fall of the one man who had parted him from his beloved sister, Emily LeFevre.

“Fancy a pickled bloater?”

“Nah”

“How about some fried tripe?”

“Nah”

“Well what about a roast potato pickled in turkey twizzler dripping? You can’t go wrong with some turkey twizzler dripping”

“Bloody hell Bert! Don’t you think bout nothing but food?”

“Oi oi! Here they come!”

Now, dear reader, envisage the scene at Grid-Iron square, the sombre and austere silence of three hundred smartly clad policemen, spiked helmets clutched tightly by grim hands, manning the barriers pop-eyed and expectant, and four dozen of her Majesty’s Huzzars, fresh out of the Crimean, sharpening the edge of their swords briskly, their eyes alight with unbridled glee, blood-shed was certain.

“Oi oi! Here they come!” Bert said once again and Boodoo, perched alongside Bert on the roof of Lord Grid-Irons town house simply smiled, “Ere Bert” he said serenely, “Toss us a Turkey Twizzler” munching speculatively on the cold and spicy meat they gazed out over the roof tops and down toward the preparations that were a-foot in Grid-Iron square. Overhead a pall of grey-black smoke hovered and undulated it’s way towards them from St-Martin-In-The-Fields, whilst on the ground all had come to a halt and the air was thick with expectant dread.

“There heeeeere” Bert declared shrilly, for not even his world weary gaze could quite take in the sheer enormity of the mob that had swarmed down from St-Martin-In-The-Fields and now seemed intent upon over-running Grid-Iron Square and tearing it apart, he thanked St. Gove he was perched firmly a-top a roof. And oh my dears! What a terrible sight! What a nightmarish spectacle for young eyes had they the wit to be terrified!

“Aieeeeeee! Aieeeee!” screamed the little chimney sweeps as they bore down like a roaring tide upon the hapless police officers,”Aieeeee! Aieeeee!” that shrill heart-stopping cry was as nothing next to the sound of the chimney scrapers they wielded, like a roaring tide of locusts devouring a cornfield, the chimney sweeps swept over the officers-of-the-law throwing themselves upon the Hussars. Then came the onslaught of the silk mill workers, who upon seeing their children joined in hand to hand combat with the Hussars, went to work themselves mopping up the leavings so to speak.

“Ere what Boodoo I didn’t know ‘erbert Wilkins was capable?”

Boodoo chortled, “E’s capable alright! Caught him trying his hand at badgering once, ‘ad to warn him smart” they both watched as little Herbert, a scarlet coloured band tied around his head, grabbed hold of a horse’s reins pulling himself up into the saddle behind the terrified Hussar. Plunging his fingers into the Hussars glossy locks he pulled hard, jerking the rider back, and causing the horse to rear, until all crumpled down into the ferocious millieux that would in time be known as the battle of Grid-Iron Square.

The two arsonists watched avidly, as wild looking women dipped beneath their skirts to remove their garters and then proceeded to use them as sling shots with which to aim and shoot bits of sharp edged debris at the enemies of promise. Here and there could be seen  police officers staggering under the weight of an enraged child, Hussars galloped to and fro caught in clear panic as chimney sweep after chimney sweep bit their noses, swung from their sword scabbards and gripped them fiercely by the hair. “A-ha!” shouted one Crimea Veteran triumphantly, ” I have you now!” as he gripped a child firmly by his soot-covered throat, ” Oh no you ruddy haven’t!” screamed another child as he flicked him aggressively in the forehead with the flat of his triangular shaped chimney scraper.

The sunset set at its usual pace as the workers and the forces of law and order grappled with each other, until at last only the workers (as well as those injured and near-comatose) remained. Those Hussars and police officers who could, had fled, and quite frankly who could blame them? For they had families to consider, “Its gone quiet for a bit” said Boodoo, “Pass me a spicy bloater” chewing speculatively on the meat his eyes passed over the crowd to a lady clad in a scarlet dress with a tri-cornered hat squarely a-top her head. Madame Guacamoley! It couldn’t be no other! He licked his lips with relish as the lady cantered briskly over the battlefield with the shrewd eyed union rep at her side,

“Comrades!” she roared, here eyes a-blaze with righteous indignation, “Our work is not over!Look around you! Does Lord Grid-Iron lie bleeding on the groud beneath your feet? Is it his loud groans you hear? Whilst your young ‘uns eat dried turkey twizzler mince, he dines on roast goose! Whilst you and yours warm yourselves by hearths heated by a single piece of coal, his face flushes with the warmth of a blazing log fueled fire! Comrades on your feet! Our work is not yet done! To Grid-Iron Manor!”

“To Grid-Iron Manor!” the workers roared their minds a-flame with thoughts of long hours and short wages “Avaunt thee Grid-Iron!” bonfires had been lit hither and thither by the workers who had tossed the various Hussar and Police officer’s uniforms upon them, in the midst of those alternately crimson, scarlet and amber coloured flames it seemed as though the workers had become the very denizens of hell, “Blimey!” said Bert as he prepared to dig into his fifth dried Turkey Twizzler, “They ain’t done yet!”

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T’was late in the evening when I found myself comfortably ensconced before the fireplace, my pipe in one hand and the testimonies of St.Gove in the other. Puffing occasionally on my pipe and glancing at the pages of the good book (Gove be praised), it seemed to me that I was struck by two things. Firstly, the wondrous enlightening effect these testimonials were having upon my previously darkened thinking and secondly, the distracting wailing sounds being emitted by a cat or some such (a child? At this time of night? Surely not!) outside my living room window. Leaving my seat and opening my window I peered out into the darkness,there was nothing there,whatever had been making that infernal racket had gone. Sighing with relief I quickly turned back to my book,page twenty of Gove’s testimonials, on which were written these immortal words,
“One can only move from goodness, to greatness, by trusting the good and the great”
I was reflecting upon this when I heard it again, a high pitched caterwauling, this time from outside my front door. Clasping the testimonials of Gove against my chest (for spiritual protection), I crept towards the door and opened it. To my horror a strangely clad female lay across my threshold half-conscious,
“Fifty pence for a turkey twizzler” she kept murmuring over and over as I helped her to her feet and walked her into my humble abode. Quickly looking around I shut the front door (one must consider one’s neighbours) and ushered this creature of the night towards the fireplace, whereupon she collapsed upon the floor twisting her hands this way and that and wailing all the while.
“We can’t afford the smoked salmon ratatouille or the tarte aux poivre, turkey twizzlers, I made enough for two turkey twizzlers. That will carry him through the school day surely?”
The poor deluded woman whom I took to be a parent (though she was not dressed like the maternal sort), plunged a pale, limp, hand into her bosom and pulled out two sorry looking coins.Tears welled up in my eyes, the sorry fruits of a nights work amidst the fleshpots of sin no doubt, one could only wonder at the poor quality of this fallen woman’s decision making, at the impact this had, had on her finances, I turned toward the testimonials of Gove which lay upon the mantelpiece and my eyes fell on the following words,
“Think you that without central intervention, in the matter of school lunches, people will become wicked and evil and do the wrong thing? Of course not!”
Praise be to Gove! For these profound words made me think back to the days of state funded spam fritters, cornflake tarts and sausage in batter with chips, plum pudding and custard had always been my favourite. The revelation of St.Gove had brought Eton-standard education to all along with the certain knowledge that the provision of sausage in batter was wrong, our children deserved better.
“Turkey twizzlers at least he can afford two turkey twizzlers that should get him through the day”
Sighing heavily, I pulled the woman to her feet and seated her in my armchair (I pulled up a stool), turning to the first page of Gove’s testimonials I cleared my throat,
“My dear have you ever considered embracing the creed of Gove?”