Something nasty in the woodshed? By Jan Needle

And now folks - Rump of Rump Hall!

Somehow or other this blog appeared briefly on Weds, then just as mysteriously vanished. Hillary to blame, or Mr Trump - the choice is yours. Maybe the blonde bombshell himself will evaporate. Trump. Ooh, what a disgusting thought...

Is it possible to watch the world events of today without despairing just a teeny weeny bit? In England the whole concept of truth is being redefined by the day, with political integrity leading the van. Men and women who pride themselves on their probity (they are honourable and right honourable members, for God’s sake) now talk about a ‘post-honest society’ as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

Brexit battle buses festooned in blatant lies are now passed off jokily as rather neat examples of how to game an unimportant argument, while our new and unelected leaderene insists that she has an unshakeable mandate to do what most thinking people look on with growing apprehension.

Ian Duncan Smith, the caring Conservative who brought us the bedroom tax among other delights, calls Keir Starmer a second-rate lawyer and then smirkingly denies it again and again to Jon Snow on Channel 4 news. What do you mean, it’s recorded? The recording’s wrong! I quite simply didn’t say it! Are you suggesting a politician could tell a lie?

And across the Pond, well, things are ten times worse. A man who might be leader is a liar, a cheat, a rogue – anything you like to call him. What’s more, he doesn’t mind if you do, because he cannot hear you. Like IDS he’s selectively deaf.

What’s left, then? Willie Rushton once replied, when asked ‘where would we be without a sense of humour?’ – ‘Germany.’ He was joking, and his brand of humour helped me to my latest ‘work.’ For to me, just for the moment, humour seems the only hope.

I wrote a book once called Wild Wood, which Willie Rushton illustrated. It told the story of the Wind in the Willows back to front. Toad was the villain, the stoats and weasels were the starving rural poor. There was a revolution, in which Toad Hall was invaded, and the poor folks got to have a drink or two, on the house. It was a heady time, which sadly ended in tears, as revolutions tend to do.

But what sort of man was Toad, I got to thinking a couple of weeks ago. Fat, immoral, ugly, charismatic, stinking rich, completely selfish, a disgrace in human form.

You can see where I’m going with this, of course you can. During a conversation with a friend of mine called Andy Lynch  and his daughter Andrea, in a louche and lovely eatery in Manchester called the Blue Pig, it suddenly occurred to us that Mr Toad and Mr Trump were one and the same animal.

Toad, in the scheme of things, deserved nothing, despite his great charisma. But in the scheme of things, this self-same Toad had everything. And here was Donald, licking his lips lasciviously over every female who was not a ‘dog’ or ‘pig,’ and putting in his claim to – everything.

Me and Liz P, who wrote a song for the book
What could a man do? The idea, once fixed, grew and grew like Topsy. My lovely friend Julia Jones, who published the latest, most wonderful version of Wild Wood through her imprint Golden Duck a couple of years ago was warned of the way my mind was wandering. She wasn’t overjoyed, because she thinks Donald isn’t worth it, and the book, one way and another, maybe is.

But she didn’t argue, and she didn’t try to stop me. If I come to regret it, I wouldn’t be surprised. But I thank her for her understanding.

It seems to me, you see, that men like Trump (and the people behind the corrupting of Western politics all over) have to be pointed at, and mocked, however little good it’s going to do. So mine and Julia’s lovely book – purely as a nine-days wonder, an electronic chimera for a few short weeks – is now called The Rise of Ronald T.Rump, with the subtitle Rump of Rump Hall.

His fatcat sidekicks have become Prat, Hole and Todger, and the miserable little stoat who takes them on in the name of holier-than-thou leftism has transformed from Boddington (peculiarly yellow, exceedingly bitter, but one of the best) to one Korban, an animal who knows a thing or two about man-management. If nothing else.

The Chief Weasel is called Clinton, and Toad, naturally, is Rump. As the great man once said, let the wild Rumpus begin.

I’m giving it away (!) at 99p, which will hardly cover the cost of ink and paper. I don’t care. I’m not in it for the money, I’m in it for love.

We mustn’t get bitter, must we? That way madness lies.

The Rise of Ronald T.Rump

Wild Wood


Susan Price said…
More power to you, Jan!
Bill Kirton said…
As you say, Jan, it's a pity Trump won't know anything about it, but we mustn't waste any chance we get to prise open the eyes and ears of his embarrassing, sinister fans. If you make just one of them re-evaluate things, it'll have been worth it. Too busy at the moment to read it, but I'm looking forward to it when the decks have been cleared.
Dennis Hamley said…
I shall buy this, Jan, because, though it's a small voice in a big world, yours is the best there is to articulate the deadly lunacy of the disaster which is engulfing us.
julia jones said…
You're right of course and it's a fun thing to do with the book - though NOT a fun prospect looking ahead. I thoroughly enjoyed my read and woudl recommend it to any one else.

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