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Satire
I, your intrepid eyewitness, have been out of circulation since the election, locked inside, ruminating on the question of life, the universe and everything. I already knew that the answer to this particular question is 42, but it didn’t seem to help. Of course the human being is well known for being easy to deceive, hence the fact that con-men and con-women, con-womxn, con-theys and con-thems are teeming in such numbers that it’s almost impossible to venture outside without tripping over them. They also infest politics disproportionately and, on this score, the recent election result seemed to bear out this fact. Weishaupt was quite correct when he said, “Oh mortal man, is there anything you cannot be made to believe?” But I digress.
You know how it is in life! You don’t see some people for decades and then suddenly former acquaintances and colleagues seem to start marching in a steady procession across your path.
I recently related a summary of an unexpected meeting with a former colleague who had been experimenting with certain DNA. Well, the first time I ventured outdoors after my seclusion, I was quietly enjoying a leisurely coffee and muffin when another former colleague spotted me and came over for a chat. The inevitable questions came up, and I asked him what he was doing to earn his pie and chips these days.
“Oh, I’m just a political psychotherapisting psychiatric psychological analysistic type of person,” he said, waving a dismissive hand as though such a job description was heard fifty times a day. This interested me, as at high school his nickname had been Meataxe, due to his being considered to be as mad as one of those rare objects. It seemed that he made a tidy income from psychoanalysing politicians of all stripes and selling the information to interested parties. But who better than a lunatic to recognise lunacy in all its shapes and sizes?
“And this keeps you busy?” I asked. “Are there enough nutter politicians around to occupy you fulltime?”
He looked pityingly at me and replied, “Of course there are. Enough for a hundred like me analysing twenty-four hours a day. Or if you prefer, two hundred working twelve hours a day. Do you think that when the psychiatric hospitals were all closed down all the mentally afflicted just disappeared? Of course not. They simply told the former inmates that they should try to get into Parliament knowing that most of them would naturally gravitate there so that people such as myself could keep an eye on them. Unfortunately, we don’t have the power to treat them, but at least they can be rounded up from time to time and let loose in the House of Representatives, or Reprehensibles as I prefer to call it, and placed under observation. It is while they are baying and slavering in the house that we get to see them in their uninhibited state, and can make our observations.”
That interested me, and I pressed him further, eager to get some clues as to the reasons for the behaviour of some of these specimens. “How many psychological disorders are represented in the house now?” I queried.
“Every one that you can think of, and probably many that you can’t,” was the response. “But we don’t tend to refer to them in scientific terms, rather, in terms that the layman can easily understand. For example, weaselitis is a very common condition there. Sometimes referred to as musteliditis which covers the sub-branches; ferretitis, stoatitis, skunkitis. And yes, skunks are mustelids.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “And how many sufferers of musteliditis would there be in the house?”
“Too many,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s Angry Spittle, Rabid Porker, Willie something or other…. Too many to name off the cuff. But it’s more complicated than that. Don’t think that these individuals have only one disorder. Oh no, no, no. Many of them have multiple disorders. One person can have weaselitis, irascibilitis, dissembleitis, prevaricitis, hubrisitis, narcissitis, idiotitis, bluff-and-blusteritis to name but a few of the more prevalent disorders.”
“Have you had a chance to analyse the new parliamentary intake as yet?” I asked hopefully,
“Oh, goodness me, no,” was the response. “There are years worth of work ahead of us getting to grips with the new influx of societal misfits that have been elected by the unsuspecting voters. We’re quite excited about it really. But our fear is that it will take so long to identify the new cases completely, that most of them will have been kicked out of Parliament before we’ve finished. With so many new Labour members there are bound to be some stimulating hitherto unknown conditions. And the Greens. Already I can identify a severe case of foreign-whingeritis with a side serving of what seems to be a combination of narcissitis and idiotitis. There are bound to be a few other conditions mixed in there as well. And Act MPs too, as a bonus,” he added. “It’s an exciting time to be alive.”
“For you and your colleagues, perhaps,” I observed drily. “Who would have thought that this collection of oddballs could actually generate some income for somebody? I really thought that they were of no use to anyone at all, but it just goes to show.”
“Yes, that’s true,” beamed my colleague. “I could go on about other conditions too, that may not be obvious to the layman.”
I glanced at my watch. “Well, maybe next time,” I said warily, as I knew that this could continue for some time if unchecked. “But before you go, any thoughts on the PM?”
He grimaced somewhat uneasily. “Well, there’s a very difficult case,” he observed. “Narcissitis, photo-shootitis, mispronounceitis, huggitis, look-at-meitis, prevaricitis… the list is too long.” He sighed heavily. “It’s taken three years to complete her list. I’m itching to get to work on the new intake.”
We said our farewells, and after cleaning up the last few muffin crumbs I strolled home contemplating anew the question of life, the universe and everything, and wondering if perhaps the answer could actually be 43.
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