Dateline Newcastle upon Tyne - Monday 25th May, 2020 18:03
THE SHADOWS CREEP CLOSER
by Tim Jones 12th June, 2017
You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension. A dimension of sounds; a dimension of sights; a dimension of mind. You are moving into a land of both shadow and substance; of things and ideas. You just crossed over into the twilight zone.
The heat and light have diminished, the players have retreated into the dark recesses, with apparent victory dashed on the rocks of defeat; with what seems like failure being a launch pad for nuclear missiles that only a week ago would have been unthinkable.
The robot spring has wound down in the alien possessed mantra machine. Strong and stable, Brexit means Brexit, no deal is better than a bad deal, I'm glad you asked that question, Jeremy, because I'm not going to answer it. These clarion calls to the bewildered are heard no more in the gloomy shadow that now pervades all.
As a twitching cockroach, scuttling from the light, the Maybot now seeks solace with killer troglodytes, living amongst mediaeval madness, in a fractured island, to the west of the homeland.
No more leafy urban suburbs, with the satisfying complacency that they bring, for our wasted one. She throws aside those who might help in favour of a brigade of brigands who shout, "Never, never, never!" in ever more stentorian voices. The Derisory Unreformed Protestants cry of gay abomination, world apocalypse arising from pornography, and reject global warming as so much hot air.
Who would have thought, just a week ago, that from making up so many grim tales about Jeremy Cornflake meeting similar island folk she would countenance the same? Shenanigans that would disgrace a nursery. Only two weeks ago the Dastardly Unhinged Protectionists shot a young man with his infant in his arms as a tit for tat reprisal in the continuing story of Partisan Place.
We await the appearance of a troupe of leprechauns to assist the Maybot along the dim brick road towards Emerald City, that mirage on the horizon.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, as we struggle with the spending power of a six-year old in a world of wolves, Cornflake peers out of his gingerbread house, seeking an opportunity to bring the once mighty Maybot tumbling from her tottering towers, so as to find a way into the palace of varieties. Once on the stage of shining lights, he can dance to a more uplifting tune, bringing magic fairy dust to all in the land.
But the Maybot, having no ambition other than continuing her domination of nothing from behind her black door, gathers some vipers to her bosom, in an unholy congress of hate. Outside, in the sunshine, we look on with dismay as the inevitability of another jousting contest before Candlemas looms.