I found this hilarious Swiftian Modest Proposal on Twitter this morning, courtesy of someone calling him/herself Northern Variant

As a Labour MP, I'm often chased down the road by very vocal Labour supporters. I welcome this level of passionate engagement. It's no cause for concern now that I have ten police officers escorting me to public engagements. The real threat comes from white working class people who used to vote Labour. As such, we're proposing new measures to criminalise far right activities such as expressing an opinion on the internet. Ideally, though, we need long term solutions which is why we're rewriting the national curriculum to teach white boys that they're the scum of the earth, and must pay reparations for their role in the slave trade. We will teach them about their white privilege and their toxic masculinity and encourage them to be gay or trans so that they won't reproduce. Of course, it's not just what this scum says on the internet that's the problem. Everything they do is racist and harms the planet, so we're taking steps to ensure they can't travel, and have to limit their racist activities to the one hour in the day when energy is affordable. (if the wind is blowing) The far right are pushing dangerous and irresponsible populist ideas such as managed immigration and affordable energy. They want to waste parliamentary time to talk about inward-looking domestic affairs instead of looking internationally at Gaza. We can't find the time to fix potholes when Jews are literally genociding the middle east. That's why we're holding a demonstration outside Starbucks this afternoon. Ultimately, the far right have got to accept that acid attacks, honour killings, stabbing epidemics, machete gangs, rape gangs, suicide bombs and ramming attacks are just part and parcel of living in the most successful multicultural society on earth. In any case, just as many white people do it. It's racist to notice Home Office data trends. I don't accept all this tosh about Labour not representing the working class any more. We're still going to win in places like Oldham, Rotherham and Bradford. We don't need or want white scum like you to voting for us. We understand the anger about grooming gangs but ultimately it's your own fault not not keeping your dirty little slags on a tighter leash. Rape gangs are just a symptom of the frustration felt by the Muslim community as they're subject to everyday Islamophobic microaggressions, such as being arrested for attempting to bomb a pop concert. As to the accusation that Islamists are in control, this is a dangerous conspiracy theory. Under Labour, we'll do everything they want before they even ask. We have shown that Islamists are not violent by rearranging parliamentary affairs to suit them. Even if this baseless accusation were true, Labour's plan for more safe and legal routes for desperate refugees fleeing war and persecution will ensure that Sharia law is the majority preference, and as democrats we will serve will of the people. Unless they want to stay out of the EU as well. Rest assured, Labour has changed. We've worked hard to root out antisemitism, but we will not allow the Tories to stamp out debate about filthy genocidal colonising zionist pigs. That's why I'll be tabling my final solution amendment this week in parliament. This is in line with what we've been hearing from hard working northern voters on the streets of Rochdale and Dewsbury. We stand with you.

Contracts for the Design of Certain Vulgar Necessities - a short story

The offering below was originally published a few years ago by Soft Cartel. However, it seems to have disappeared from their archive, so I am republishing it here and also on my Substack, The Modern Philistine.

Dusk. By motorway’s margin, Jissom seethes. Bilious eyes glare at pitiful shreds of tyre, then

down at, cradled in his own soft milquetoast palm, apparatus. On this, screen signifies signal’s

absence. Jissom, cursing in decibels drowned by road’s roar, now over crash barrier’s lip

surveys elevation’s panoply, bounty of artifice: warehouses, caravans, nissan and quonset

huts, prefabricated dwellings indifferently lit, beyond all of which in middle distance

silhouettes of low hills make of vista a valley.

“This is Hell,” mutters Jissom, and then, as the rest of the line returns unbidden: “nor

am I out of it.”

A seeming eternity of gale. Rain begins. Lorries pass. Jissom in his thin coat hunches.

From this, deliverance is a box on wheels which, otherwise nondescript, stops. Jissom, by

now drenched, hence quite beyond the reach of scruple, seizes the passenger door, jumps

in, is immediately assailed by tobacco’s stench, and that of unwashed body. The driver,

dry grey hair dry yellow hands dry lined face dirty shirt, speaks first.

“Coming off next junction. That do you?”

“Anywhere,” says Jissom, “I can get a signal.”

A sardonic chuckle.

“You’ll be lucky.”

“I doubt it,” says Jissom.

“Going far?” says the driver.

“Conference,” says Jissom, “In the Vale. Design. The conference, I mean.”

The driver introduces himself. His name, mumbled, seems to be ‘Wankingstain’. His

desiccated hands, gripping tight the wheel, otherwise shake.

They trundle down off the elevation. A plain unfolds. Darkness creeps across the desolation.

“Taking you to club,” says Wankingstain.

“Club?” says Jissom.

“Back under flyover,” says Wankingstain, jerking a thumb, “next exit, double back.

See it from where we was before. Stupid really.”

“Not really got time for this,” says Jissom peevishly, “clubbing and that. Sposed to

be going to this conference. In the Vale. The design thing. Ain’t there a garage or nothing?”

“Won’t get noone come out this late,” says Wankingstain, “even if you do get a signal.”

The sliproad. Then a roundabout. They double back, as was foretold in the chronicle. This

one.

Amidst now, similarly adumbrated: the warehouses alluded to, the caravans, nissans, quonsets,

prefabs. Indifferently lit, as said. Wankingstain drives them down two or three streets of this

stuff, past peeling plywood, crumbling cement, mouldy brick. Then stops outside a structure

exhibiting all salient appurtenances of a building. On thereof the frontage is writ ‘CLUB’.

“Club,” says Wankingstain.

“Club Club, could call it,” iterates Jissom.

Wankingstain yanks at something under the wheel. The engine coughs like a smoker, then

falls silent.

Within Club. Underlit. Quantities of oxblood naugahyde. Some velveteen. All of it filthy.

Booths. These are empty. Wall-mounted speakers. A floor, in which is planted a solitary pole.

Fronting the arrangement, a bar. Behind this glowers a thin bald personage. Dressed in

ascetic black, unaccountably familiar to Jissom.

“Jissom,” says Wankingstain, “car’s fucked on the hard shoulder.”

“Only the tyres,” says Jissom.

The thin bald man yawns. In Jissom, the penny drops.

“Jissom meets Wankingstain,” says the thin bald man unsmiling, “universe-ending

paradoxes ensue.”

“Professor Goetz?” says Jissom, “read loadsa your stuff. Anthro ’n’ sociology module

at uni.”

Goetz, implacably sour, reaches behind, decants fluid from optic into shot glass. He drinks

this.

“Uni,” he grunts.

Jissom, embarrassed, recalls intimations of scandal. At any rate, controversy. The specifics

elude him. Caught in toilet with cocaine and catamite? Perhaps, or not. Goetz, drinking again,

speaks again.

“No grasp of statistical methodology. Intellectual pygmies.”

“Retired now?” hazards Jissom.

“Pursuing independent research programs,” says Goetz.

“Involving Club?” says Jissom.

“Focussing on depersonalisation,” says Goetz.

No signal forthcoming. Jissom given a room. Wankingstain takes him there. Upstairs, through

more oxblood naugahyde and filthy velveteen. The room, small, is likewise caparisoned in

these identical commodities. Synthetic polymers. Weird thin waterproof mattress. Oxblood,

inevitably. Everything underlit, causing eye-strain.

“Where is everyone?” says Jissom, “the Club Club clubbers, I mean.”

“I think you will find,” says Wankingstain in a sudden and unanticipated access of

articulacy, “that your description is somewhat wide of the mark.”

“Wide of the mark?” says Jissom, “why?”

Wankingstain starts crying.

“Need drink,” he sobs, “Oh God, I can’t stand this.”

He stumbles out of the chamber, of which the door slams shut. Residues of his cigs and sweat

make it foetid in there. Thinking to circulate air, Jissom applies himself to the door handle,

and is disconcerted to find rotation thereof unavailing.

Hours pass. At any rate, more than one. Jissom bethinks himself of car, conference, contracts

for the design of certain vulgar necessities. Functional machines. For shiny folk. Tells himself

that his confinement is inadvertent. An oversight, nothing else.

Voices in the corridor outside. Jissom, hammering on the door, shouts,

“I’m locked in, could somebody please let me out.”

The voices stop outside his room. The door opens.

“The fuck?” says Jissom.

Of hominids, a brace. Rubber from head to toe. Only eyes show. Deadened, basilisk.

“I am the red gimp,” says the red one, “this is the black gimp. Nothing else.”

Jissom, his skin crawling, edges past the creatures into the corridor.

Downstairs. Past all oxblood and filth. The bar, populated now. Goetz, behind it, scowls at all

gimps. A green gimp, a yellow gimp, an orange gimp. A blue gimp, a violet gimp, an indigo

gimp. A white gimp. A rainbow gimp. Jissom, his skin crawling, edges past the creatures to the

bar.

“Red Stripe,” he says to Goetz.

Goetz sourly smirks.

“Sure I can’t tempt you to a banana daiquiri? They’re perfectly exquisite in this joint.”

“Just the Red Stripe,” says Jissom, “then I’ll be on my way.”

Goetz shrugs his shoulders.

“Suit yourself. Interested to see how you go about getting off the estate. Very poor

communications with externality.”

Jissom, drinking his drink, surveys the scene. The black gimp and the red gimp have returned.

The white gimp executes a surprisingly demure pole dance. (Under artificial light, flirting with

magnolia. Beige, even. Probably the oxblood.) The other gimps applaud politely.

Conversational hubbub emerges from wall-mounted speakers. Compensating for the gimps.

Their silence. On account of the ball-gags. Of which prior mention omitted. They strike

conversational poses. It is grotesque.

“This your research program?” says Jissom to Goetz, “all these gimps?”

“Yes,” says Goetz, “focussing on depersonalisation. What I said. Room to your liking,

I trust.”

“Not really,” says Jissom, “prefer being in rooms can open from inside. Capricious of

me, I know.”

“Oh, that,” says Goetz airily, “program function. Nothing else.”

“Don’t see Wankingstain,” says Jissom.

“He’s drunk,” says Goetz, “sleeping it off. The indeterminate gimp is attending to him.”

“Indeterminate?”

“Yes,” says Goetz, “or vague. Still deciding.”

“I want to see,” says Jissom, “where?”

“Room,” says Goetz distractedly waving a limp white paw, “upstairs.”

Upstairs. Past all filth and oxblood. Jissom looks in rooms. Overlapping combinations of filth,

naugahyde, velveteen, oxblood, thin mattresses, synthetic polymers. Foetid residues of cigs

and sweat.

Jissom smelling extra rank reek finds Wankingstain in a room. He props the door open with

the thin mattress in there. It is oxblood naugahyde. Wankingstain’s trousers and pants pulled

down. The grey gimp with him (Wankingstain) retrieves a thermometer from his

(Wankingstain’s) bottom.

“I am the indeterminate gimp,” it says,

“Or vague,” says Jissom, catching on, “still deciding.”

“Yes,” says the indeterminate gimp, “nothing else. Nor black nor white.”

“Does Wankingstain have a temperature?” says Jissom.

“I was checking his blood pressure,” says the indeterminate gimp, “it is high.”

“With a thermometer?” sneers Jissom, “total munter.”

“Meanings aren’t in the head,” says the indeterminate gimp, “ask the rainbow gimp.”

Something is lying in the corner. Jissom noticing it now. Empty gimpsuit. Colour he has never

seen before. Never even imagined.

“Fuck’s this?” says Jissom.

“It is the gimpsuit in the missing shade,” says the indeterminate gimp.

“Who for?”

“The gimp in the missing shade,” says the indeterminate gimp.

“Need drink,” says Jissom.

Wankingstain groans. Scratches pock-marked ballsack.

Downstairs. Past filthy naugahyde, velveteen oxblood polymers in missing shades of synthetic

mattress. All. Nothing else.

The bar. Goetz cross at his station. The lure of banana daiquiri. Jissom surrenders.

“Wankingstain still drunk,” says Goetz.

“Empty gimpsuit up there,” says Jissom venomously.

“Ah yes,” says Goetz, “for the gimp in the missing shade.”

“Well,” says Jissom, “who exactly has that gimpsuit’s kismet?”

“Who can say?” says Goetz, “uncountably infinite, those missing shades.”

Deafening klaxon. Goetz from behind bar flourishes of fire extinguishers a brace. The red

gimp takes one. The black gimp takes one. They ascend stairs, of gimps the brace. Past, no

doubt, oxblood and all that jizz.

Goetz smacks wall switch. Klaxon stops. Recorded hubbub resumes. Gimps strike

conversational poses. No less grotesque than previously. More so, even.

The stench of burning rubber filters downstairs. Jissom is reminded of his car’s tyres.

Thin mattresses. Proustian.

The indeterminate gimp appears.

“Wankingstain has disappeared,” it says.

Goetz peevishly says,

“I thought you were attending him.”

“Who am I, Master?” says the indeterminate gimp, “only the indeterminate gimp.

Nothing else.”

“Pity,” says Goetz, “Had high hopes for that one.”

“He started the fire,” says the indeterminate gimp, “as a distraction.”

Jissom drinks another banana daiquiri, and a Red Stripe. Car, conference, contracts for the

design of certain vulgar necessities. These recede into history. Time’s stream separates him

from them. He wonders what it will be like, being inculcated into gimphood. Like nothing,

presumably. Oblivion.

Goetz goes. Upstairs through naugahyde and oxblood. To break in the new gimp in the

missing shade. Jissom stays. The only non-gimp downstairs. Discombobulated, he goes

behind the bar. Differentiation strategy. He finds more velveteen there, and a filthy oxblood

mattress. Thin naugahyde. Synthetic. Polymer.

The red gimp reappears. And the black gimp.

“The gimp in the missing shade escaped from its box,” says the red gimp.

“Master is dead,” says the black gimp, “the gimp in the missing shade killed him.”

“The box was oxblood naugahyde velveteen,” says the red gimp, “nothing else.”

The following morning. The neighbouring warehouse. A weird funeral. Jissom finds himself

mysteriously elected to officiate. He delivers an encomium, lists Professor Goetz’s

publications, the ones he can remember, commends his soul to the hereafter. Or at least the

box. Still no sign of Wankingstain. The gimphood of the gimp in the missing shade was his

kismet, thinks Jissom.

They burn the body in the box which the gimp in the missing shade escaped from. The

rainbow gimp and the indeterminate gimp emit inchoate mouth noise, whereby they signify

keening or dirge. Nothing else. The white gimp of a sudden approaches bier-side and flings

itself upon the flames. Keening or dirge as its body burns redoubles. By this means, the white

gimp while writhing is blackened and shrived. Stench of synthetic polymers. Honour is warped

in the satisfaction.

They return to Club: Jissom and the remaining gimps. All drink banana daiquiris. A delicate

operation, militated against by the ball-gags. Straws are used for this reason. Except Jissom.

He drinks Red Stripe.

Jissom, behind the bar, finds a cable. Charges up his mobile. There is a signal.

In the months following his rescue, Jissom finds himself increasingly uncomfortable in the

presence of his fellow humans. They yell incomprehensibly. They drool. Jissom feels that

they are reverting to gimpery. They wear naugahyde clothing and lounge on thin oxblood

mattresses in dirty velveteen boxes. Nothing else. Jissom becomes a recluse. He shuts himself

away in his bungalow on the edge of the market town where he has made his home. He

dedicates the near eternity to the design of a certain vulgar necessity. From the thought of

the contract relating to this article he derives some solace.