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 The Scent That Captures That "1930s Moment"!

All material copyrighted to © 2014

or to the various credited sources © 2014



The last thing any Britishers want in these straitened DEVON

VIOLET days are more Johnny Foreigners coming over here

For a spot of “benefit tourism” –time to tighten up

Entitlements until the quips peak; Frank ‘Not In My Back’ Field

MP seems as if he needs a dose of smelling salts to soothe

His intolerance to free movement of labour, some DEVON

VIOLET smelling salts, to fumigate his sinuses –“flexibility

Of labour” is perfectly acceptable in minds of politicians

And employers, but not free movement (except violet scents),

That’s now taboo –and the Poverty Tsar has done the maths:

Our cramped asthmatic coffers need to vent themselves

Of further clogging, we must vet more, no more spent on

Peripatetic opportunists from the Continent trying

To better themselves in our sovereign realm –only venture

Capitalists may venture about, tycoons and bankers have

That special privilege, to move their investments, detour

Their taxes via offshore havens of cash-stashed archipelagos,

Or threaten liquidising their assets at the merest roaring mouse

Of Regulation… Close up our Borders-by-the-sea, draw up

The ramparts, haul up the drawbridge –put up those DEVON

VIOLET hoardings over Dawlish’s terracotta escarpments

And Dover’s chalky white-knuckled cliffs –this golfing green

And peasant land, playground of the rich, apartheid for

The poor, must reassert itself, un-cuff its fists –time to






Of course, during times of economic crisis –contrapuntal

To the necessary rumour of ‘Scroungerology’ to cajole

The proletariat into projecting their gilt-edged dearth of credit

Into the shadows of a "sponging" lumpenproletariat,

And distract the cash-strapped masses from the true ‘culprits’

Of their economic misery, also Austerity's ‘parasites’

(The ‘so-called “wealth-creators”’)– conspiracy theories

Are ripe for percolation, though rarely reach epidemic

Proportions, courtesy of a public more copiously

Spoon-fed on the violet tropes of red-tops than the less

Redacted evidence of their own optics… But there are those,

Nonetheless –mostly dreadlocked Trotskyists, Tofu-munching

Tub-thumpers, Museli Lefties, tin-pot revolutionaries, pop-

Up protestors, and other middle-class ‘radicals’, who’ve never

Done a decent pay’s work in their lives, except in their heads– ...


...Who would seriously have us, the British Public, believe

Austerity has been politically manufactured, concocted

By dastardly Doctors of Credit, Speculators and Hedge-

Betters, to make nations atone for years of Buy-To-Let

Plenty (soon to be resuscitated through the artifical

Stimulus of another housing bubble inflated by the ‘Help-

To-Buy-To-Bet’ Baronet, ‘aristocratic’ Chancellor -these

Peasants don't even know the difference between blue and

Aurple blood!- in pursuit of, not so much his grocer’s daughter

Idol’s “property-owning democracy”, as a ‘property-

Letting plutocracy’)! This is as paranoid as it can get!





So, according to these anarchistic crusties, the entire

Establishment (in league, of course, with the Markets and Troika)

Is unnecessarily inflicting mass austerity –and, get this:

Mostly only on those who weren’t invited to the party,

Who are not part of some mythic ‘Elect’, yet who are ‘expected

To clean up after them’… And they’ll brandish their workshy

Fists at makeshift lecterns, rant on about the dismantling

Of the Welfare State, the Attlee Settlement (which was, in any

Case, never actually settled in the first place), and last ditch

Ramparts of ‘compassionate’ politics, and some phoney ‘post-

War consensus’, soon to be gauchely replaced with skeleton

Auspices of honeycombed “Mutualism”, the Trussell Trust’s

Charitable food banks, which they ungratefully disparage

As State-outsourced ‘alfresco socialism’… And that all this

Is some sort of incremental pincer-movement around

The nation’s poorest –on whose behalf they appoint themselves

To speak without having bothered to ask them –the surplus,

Or residuum– for their permissions! O, and so they say,

The unemployed and homeless are all shovelled up from city

Precincts and gentrified high streets (protocols hyperbolised

As “social cleansing”!), into dosshouses, night shelters, or

Expedient accommodations of prison cells, B&Bs at Her

Majesty’s Pleasure (but at Our expense!); or, for those more

Fortunate, mere exile to the “doughtnut” ghettoes out of town;

Or out in the sticks, for those more intrepid, to kick against

The pricks, pitch up tents as Occupiers of empty spaces,

Pick-up-sticks and pitchforks like the Diggers, split-levellers:

From urban rent evictees to pastoral trespassers –Someone

Has to pick up the tab for these mud-slumming reprobates,

These squatting degenerates: and that’s invariably the putupon

Taxpayer, who has to stump up compensation, on behalf

Of the absentee landowner, for all the rubbish left behind

After public occupation of unoccupied private space,

Via the auspices of the State, as well as shelving out silvers,

Thirty a piece, as insurance to strangle-off charges

Of manslaughter-by-taser brought against our vigilant Police…

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