Meet Obama Murgatroid

What Ho Proles!

It’s been a time. Indeed, at the risk of sound too familiar, I’d say it’s been a ruddy long time since I struck you last behind your knees with my walking cane of political good sense. The world has changed considerably since I last dragged an unconscious man’s heels across your turf and buried him beneath your begonias. Lots of water under the bridge, pigs up the alley, and a good deal of quality manure spread around Aunt Harrot’s string beans. Lots of quality metaphors lost to the cause. Lots lost in this paragraph but there you go. The price of democracy is the death of metaphor. And you can quote me on that.

I say it’s been a time but we’ve not been idle. My Man has gone out and bought himself a moustache, worn it through the summer, before razing it in the autumn in the hope of promoting grown in the spring. As for me, I have undergone a transformation of my very own. I don’t mean anything an extreme as a moustache. What I’m referring to is a hardening of my views and a new blooming of my ambition. You’ll find a much changed Jacob P. Murgatroid sitting in his slippers and dictating this in his dragon embroidered kimono. He has been encouraged to return to his memoirs at this time by the hand of a particularly prescient Fate. But I know what you’re thinking. You’re all sitting there, comfortable in your little council owned hovels, thinking: with the first black president taking office, the last thing the world needs is a white bread country squire. But you’d be wrong. So very, very wrong.

Obama’s victory is the chance for all people of ethnic minorities to stand up and make their voices heard. Too long has this country of ours ignored the concerns of the landed gentry, the land owners, the business titans, the Murgatroid Family. Obama’s victory is a victory for all of us who have felt the oppressors heel, sniffed their socks, and indeed, tasted their very boot polish on the tips of our tongue.

What has happened to me since last you read about my exploits? Well, I ask, what hasn’t happened to me? My memoirs were due to be published this year but the powers that be soon put a stop to that. Many lumps of stringed wax were sacrificed to long Westminster nights as political heavyweights assessed the harm that my confessions might make if they ever saw publication. The conclusions they reached might not be ready by public eyes for another forty years but I can show you what they mean in real terms. I have been the victim of the security services taking an interest in my affairs and My Man has bagged himself more than one MI5 agent snooping around the estate.

In fact, the sound of constant gunfire has made it quite difficult to come to terms with the new Tory Party that Daisy Cameron has been creating in his mother’s image. It’s hardly the sort of place a man of quality tweed likes to be seen but I say it’s better that a man work inside the Party to influence reform that stand outside with the street urchins.

There will come a time when people will seek me out and I intend to be there when they do their seeking. In the meantime, I’ll be here for a while. I hope you’ll join me again in my lonely vigil.