It is another beautiful day in the village of Little Tallyban and I awoke looking forward to a hearty breakfast. And then things started going downhill. The smell of burning pork was wafting on the breeze from one of the local hotels (which I plan to close) and although I know it is a mortal sin I found myself wondering what it would taste like. Just one taste of the infidel delicacy. And then to pray for forgiveness, of course. Privately.
Those infernal birds in that dreadful little park near the village square were tweeting my name. My psychiatrist has told me to ignore such twitterings and has given me some medicine. I will go further – I will ignore both birds and the villagers alike. The little people just need to be told what to do. That’s what they voted for and that’s what they are going to get. Now, where was I? Oh yes.That bloody park with the tweeters. And there in the middle is that building to commemorate that drunken war hero whose name will never cross my lips. Why is it that so many of these old crocks that people hold in such high esteem were alcoholics? The unholy infidel Winston Churchill (may the pigeons take a dump on his memory) drank brandy for breakfast and Benjamin Franklin was a wino. That is why he invented spectacles. To get over the blindness that God struck him with for drinking that unholy fermentation. Even the sponsor of our economic miracle, Brad Orbarma, likes to drink that poisonous piss water the unbelievers call Kronenburg. (In fact, many infidels also think that Kronenburg is piss.) And what did these famous men ever do for Mankind ? In contrast to them I am expecting to receive an honory doctorate from a college in one of our neighboring redneck villages for services to human rights. Everybody loves me and I see it in their eyes every day. That look when I lose my temper and they pretend to cower in the corner. In their eyes I can see that they love me. Where was I ? Oh yes. The infidel bacon. Sizzling and wafting through my bedroom like a temptation from God.
I will remain pure, I have decided today. I have issued a public decree (for my word is law) that Ayran, which is yogurt mixed with salt and water, shall be our village’s ‘national’ drink, so to speak and will be served in all bars and restaurants. I think it tastes like sheep’s semen. Not that I know about the taste of sheep’s semen. But if it did, I have often speculated in bed, often in the dead of night when Mrs Thorn is asleep with one of her many headaches, then it would taste like delicious Ayran. Sex with animals is forbidden under the new village religion that I am introducing by decree. Why a religion would need to ban men (or women if the websites I visit are really true) from having sex with animals I do not know. My ban on sex with women unless they are related seems perfectly fine to me. Marriage is also an option if men want a shag with something human and non-sheeplike. The new village religion is soon to be compulsory as is the veil, and so no-one will know what an ugly dog your wife is anyway! Brilliant! My wife has had so many facelifts that she barely recognises herself in the mirror. Vanity is a sin in our new religion but her face lifts were for medical reasons. She kept tripping over her jowls.
Where was I ? Sheep. Forbidden. The people need direction. And so do I, at least that is what my psychiatrist says. Anyway, anyone drinking alcohol will be punished and beaten in the recently restored stocks that I wish to erect outside one of the many new village churches. The local vicars, of which we have many, have assured me that the townfolk need direction from their mayor. So I am really looking forward to the first floggings which will be televised on the village’s own TV station, of which I am the majority shareholder. I don’t have any shares at all. I just have control over those that do. I will so fire their arses if they put just one foot out of line. Well if you don’t drink or have sex with people you have to have some vices. And mine is power. Raw power. I have been mayor for ten years now and people young and old love me like, well, (may God forgive me) like Him.
Over breakfast I issued a decree over the phone to demolish the war memorials, tear down those trees (that will teach those tweeting bastards a lesson) and to start planning a shopping center for Mrs Thorn so she can add to her shoe collection and buy more make-up. And a DIY shop for the new trowel she needs to apply it with.
Those little shits have taken over my park!
I have ordered the village police to humanely beat the crap out of them and torch the place and this they did. But more of the villagers came and replaced them and they have even started a pop festival in the village square. I am in a blind fury and will probably need to beat the cat again. Where is my medication ? It says on the bottle that it may cause psychosis. What nonsense! I have never felt better.
Stay tuned for tomorrow’s installment of the unpublished diaries of Mr. Thorn.