Anthony Charles Lynton Bliar wast borne in thon yeare of our Lorde, Nyneteen Hundrede and Fiftie Thrie, in yon burgh of Edin in yon lande of Jock. Thiss younge ladde greweth – in an mannere akin to an funguss – and didst embarketh upon his foule exystence in an cayre-free fashione, whilst he didst learneth aboute lyfe and the worlde as alle lyttle squirts so doeth. Butst thyngs were aboute to changeth forevere in thon lyfe of younge Anthony…
Whatst his mater wast aboute to revealeth wouldst shaketh Anthony to his verie core (tho’ notte his soule – for as we shalt seeth, he wast foundeth to lacketh substantiallie in saide departemente) and wouldst haveth suche sygnifycante repercussiones for the countrie, thon goode folke therein… and indeede the entyre worlde…
His mater explaineth to the wilfulle younge twerp his parte in thon Mephistopheliane twysted visione thusly…
She thenne elaborateth furthere on thatte pathe whych hath beene layd outte for thiss speciallie anoynted progenie fromme the loines of Beelzebub…
As he didst mulleth it overe, thenne his mater didst informeth Anthony of his pater’s grandeste ambitione of alle for him…
And verily didst this chymeth wyth yon perversse aspiraytiones of younge Anthony, muche to the ghastlie glee of bothe his earthlie mater… and his infernalle pater…
So thou seeth, ’tis not for nothyng that this wretched (or indeede ‘retched’) specimen, Anthony Bliar, didst cometh to be hayted so verily by yon commone folke and becometh so vividlie descrybed by them, usyng suche fittyng and dyverse wordes as: atroshious, korruptive, darke, demmonick, despickable, Devillishe, diabollickale, feendishe, flagishious, greevuss, heenuss, Hellishe, immoralle, infernalle, injuryuss, knavishe, malefisente, malevolente, malyne, monstruss, murderousse, pestifferous, Satanick, sinisterre, slimie, unholie, vishious, vyle, warre-cryminale, wickede, werthless, wretshed… welle, thou getteth the idea: essentiallie, he wast an rite lyttle pryck fromme the starte.
But feareth not goode folke and keepeth fayth thou stoutte puffines and puffinesses of Goeing Postale, for thon fyres of Hell and damnayshion dulie awayteth Bliar and his kynde. We canst anticipateth thatst his reunione with his deare pater doth notte be an joyousse one…
Whylst yon roade aheade myte stille proveth arduouse and unsteadie, in the fullnesse of tyme those righteousse folkes of Gloriouse Britannia shalt, as theye have an grate abundanse of tymes in theyr illustriousse historie, wyth persevyrance and strengthe prevayleth agaynst tyrranie, this tyme thatst of yon Satanick continentale empyre and thon feermongeryng, naysayinge Remoanere pestilence… eithere wyth the assystance of oure pitchforkes or withoute!
Huzzah!
Endeth
Featured image: Center for American Progress – Licence CC BY-ND 2.0
© The Black Swan 2018
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