The Olympics for North Korea?

What Ho Proles!

A lazy day so far: slippers, dressing gown, newspapers, toast and tea. The weather has drawn in around the old Hall; so much so, that from my bedroom window, I can barely see the lights of the village. There’s something faintly disquieting about being unable to watch what the locals are up to. As if to remind me, to the east, the crossroads are less obscured and the old unused (but perfectly maintained) gallows form a cold and desolate spectacle, recalling tales of a noble forefather who once hung there for six weeks after the village rebelled against the ill-fated laird’s ban on their buying mead for the village idiot.

I’ve sent My Man out to reconnoitre the town and to report back any loose talk of rebellion. I’ve also told him to make sure that Barney Lloyd is well supplied with his favourite tipple.

Otherwise, I don’t know why I’m feeling uneasy. The weather’s turn to true Autumnal gloom is a comfort, a respite if you will. It is the perfect time for me to turn my eye to international affairs.

As I made my way to the kitchen, this morning, I caught a glimpse of the TV and some footage of North Korea’s PR stunt yesterday. Mighty fine show it was too and just the sort of thing that I’d like to organize in the village. Those followers of Juche Sasang know how to get everyone behind the cart, pushing in the same direction, and they certainly have a flair for these big ceremonies. And it got me to thinking that there is a nation perfectly fit for doing nothing else than hosting every Olympic Games. Think about this for a moment. It may be one happy balloon-filled solution to the whole sorry mess.

By bringing the pariah state back into the international fold by promising them the Olympics for perpetuity, we get none of that nonsense we have with the French and their surrealist turns. No more dancing fig trees symbolizing earthly peace, fruity flavours, or the Age of Aquarius in one easy bowel movement. No more Barry Davies getting overexcited when a bucket of doves turn into a man’s homburg. and matching Calabash gourd smoking pipe. And, to be honest, as I watched the pictures coming out of Pyongyang, I felt a throbbing in that place in my soul I have for flaming torches. Dilly Cameron can keep his new logo. Maggie’s torch burns brightly over my heart. And seeing all those thousands of flame wielding serfs being led with vision, it rekindled my own ambitions to one day lead out great nation.

I’m now going back to bed to read the rest of the papers. My weekend bout with the fever and exertions since, have left the Honourable Jacob feeling not a little fragile.

Still toodling but with less of the pip pip today.