And because everyone would pay it, Britain would have a library on every street corner. Then the Queen could go in and borrow a copy of Rights of Man. Joy!
In the early hours of my day in charge of the country, the people of Barnsley will be woken from their flat-capped slumber by a rhythmic and insistent clanking as the machinery of government is levered into place in the middle of my village on the outskirts of The Shining City on the Hill, as we locals call it. The House of Commons, the House of Lords, the departments of state will all straddle the river Dearne rather than the Thames; there’ll be ermine catching in the swirling water, expensive suits dragging in the mud. From today, the south is The Provinces, and Round Here is the Home Counties. The Queen will relocate to Grimethorpe and, guess what: she’ll enjoy it. She’ll love it. She’ll wonder why she ever lived anywhere else.
Now it’s time to legislate, quickly, like all governments try to do, before people work out what I’m doing. Tax will be abolished; well, the word tax will be abolished and replaced by the word joy, because the paying of tax is a joyful thing. As the old saying goes, it’s the price we pay for civilisation.“Paid your joy, yet, George?” “I certainly have, Mavis, and that’s why I feel so joyous this morning.” “And is that why we’ve got a new library on every street corner, George?” “It certainly is, Mavis: I saw the Queen in there yesterday, borrowing Rights of Man!” “Ah, joy!”
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