We arrive, dear reader, where we left off. Ebetheresa Scrooge had been taken from her bedroom by the Ghost of Christmas Present, Ken Clarke, and shown the cold brutality of life for upper middle class families like Toby “Toadmeister” Young’s. And now, she faced the final spectre: the demonic figure of Iain Duncan Smith…
“Iain…?” quaked Scrooge. The spirit, cloaked in black like the harbinger of death itself, did not reply.
Still the spectre remained mute.
“Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” asked Scrooge.
The spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.
They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed to spring up about them.
Amongst the Pret a Mangers, the Monsoons, and the vegan, ethically sourced, everything-but-the-kitchen-sink-free coffee shops, Scrooge heard hipsters talking about a woman who had died. They then moved into the City of London; prying on bankers frantically selling off shares in Royal Mail, G4S and VirginCare.
Scrooge heard one of them laugh, saying “If she wanted to keep ’em after she was dead, a wicked old screw, why wasn’t she natural in her lifetime? If she had been, she’d have had somebody to look after her when she was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out her last breath, alone by herself!”
“Spirit!” said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. “I see, I see. The case of this unhappy woman might be my own. My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is this!”
The spirit and Scrooge’s journey suddenly gathered pace. They flitted back to Toby “Toadmeister” Young’s humble, four-story town house. The family was weeping, for Tiny Tarquin was no longer for this earth, struck down by his gluten intolerance.
Then suddenly a graveyard appeared and the spirit’s clawed, mangled hand pointed to one headstone. Scrooge read the inscription. It was hers.
“No, Spirit! Oh no, no!”
The spirit continued to point.
“I can change,” exclaimed Scrooge, “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year! I will live in the past, the present, and the future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me!”
Suddenly, the spirit was gone, and Scrooge was back in her bedroom. ‘Twas Christmas morn, and she was thankful. Flinging open her curtains and windows, she looked down on the streets of London.
She could see men and women, with nothing more than sleeping bags for shelter, queuing up at Trussell Trust food banks. Across the way, she could see a family of four in a damp-riddled bedsit. And directly below her window, a disabled person in a wheelchair was begging for change.
“I will live in the past, the present, and the future!” Scrooge repeated, “The spirits of all three shall strive within me. And I will forever remember poor Tiny Tarquin! Oh Margaret Thatcher! Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this!”
Scrooge shouted down, her voice ringing across the City:
“Tax cuts for the rich! A private NHS! State welfare for corporations! No more public services! Free porn for all government ministers!”
Ebetheresa Scrooge had learned nothing. And this, dear reader, is the moral of this sad tale. A leopard never changes its spots.
Especially not a Tory one.
Merry Christmas to you and yours!
Featured image via YouTube
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