A Story About Old England

It was in the times of Good King Freddie and the PM and benefactor holy person were going to situated out by hot air inflatable to save Siberian woggalogs stranded on ice floes in the Arctic Ocean. On the morning of flight a little horde of inquisitive nearby citizenry had turn out from Bristol and Chipping Sodbury wanting to see a marvelous calamity. A correspondent from the Bristol Breakfast Crier (BBC) was there to meeting the Prime Minister. 'It is safe to say that you are leaving the nation to escape feedback for the shocking condition of the economy?' he asked, 'or have you chosen that suicide is the main way out?' 'You are very much aware that the shocking condition of the economy is changeless in England,' answered a smiling Merlin. 'It can't be faulted for my administration that has been in force for just a couple of decades. Concerning submitting suicide, I hope to escape that destiny, alongside my friend, the Patron Saint.' 'Ok yes, Cuthbert: how is he nowadays?' 'Our present Patron Saint and Minister for the Environment is George. You ought to realize that.' 'Is that him over yonder; the little chap in the corroded covering who continues fiddling with his visor?' 'That is him.' The columnist brought over his collaborator. 'We should have a moment portrayal of the monstrosity in the tin suit.' Then swinging back to Merlin he asked, 'Is it genuine that this venture is 500 for every penny over spending plan and two months behind timetable?' 'One can never be sure of the expense or conveyance date of a progressive mechanical leap forward,' answered Merlin. 'However, the hypothetical idea was French, right?' 'We attempt to stay up to date with global logical thought.' The journalist turned aside in revulsion and advised his right hand to be prepared to make a moment representation of the nearing disaster. Since the facial hair extending incident of the first free flight, George had contrived a method for discharging the moorings from inside the crate of the hot-air blow up. So with last checks finished, George bade goodbye to Jack. 'Care for the stronghold, my pets and the old dark female horse,' he got out brightly. At that point much to the consternation of the gathered group he made an impeccable take-off and cruised away into the blue. One little kid began to applaud yet he ceased at a stern look from his dad. 'It's not regular: men flying through the air, horrible can happen to it,' was the fatherly proclamation. 'Would I be able to quote you on that?' asked the man from the BBC. At that point he settled down to compose a piece for tomorrow's town messenger about how, notwithstanding the parlous condition of the economy, citizens' cash was being squandered on abroad side trips for government priests.