Having replenished my stocks of Heinz Baked Beans with Best Beluga Caviar (now on special offer!), or whatever it is I eat when I get up in the mornings, at Messrs Sainsbury's Emporium, I worshipped briefly at the local temple of St Tim
where the telescreen was relaying the Dianafest of St Michael of Wacko to an entirely uninterested audience of Nigerians and such of the remaining White population of Woolwich who can't afford or are too mean to drink in the Earl of Chatham
. (I only went into the Great Harry
for the excellent Polish lager they sell, honest.) On the screen, assorted scions of the King family (as in Martin Luther) were eulogizing forth, songs were sung and tastefully chosen photographs of St Michael in his younger, blacker and frankly less frightening days were back-projected.
Finishing my libation I set off for home. A question troubled me:
Why is a nutter who spent much of his later life unsuccessfully trying to convert himself into a White man such an icon for the "Black Community"? Do they, like many Indians, secretly wish they were White too?
I blame the atomic bomb, myself.