Is That It, Butt?

Ben Wildsmith 

We’re so over science, aren’t we?

Now that Reform UK has rolled back all that woke nonsense from the Enlightenment and reintroduced good old common sense as the guiding principle of national life it sounds so 2014 when you hear some Establishment drone pushing luxury beliefs about vaccines, so-called climate change or anything else connected to the empiricism scam that has blighted our traditional way of life since Tony Blair decided that natural laws govern the universe.

It’s refreshing returning to our natural state, unshackled from the wasteful grind of peer-reviewed research that kept overgrown students sucking on the teat of taxpayers’ money whilst hard-working hedge fund managers were taxed into the middle aisle at Lidl.

So, driven by unadulterated superstition and an aggressive desire to honour my ancestors, we headed up Penrhys yesterday evening to read the portents of an angry god who was threatening to turn off the sun if Andy Burnham doesn’t Stop the Boats.

All around us, the signs were there that He needs to take back control. The mountains behind Ferndale are ablaze with His fury at the imposition of VAT on private education.

Beyond the flames, dark satanic windmills pump out inclusive electricity for the WEF whilst ruining the view from Rhondda Golf Club and, chillingly, only a single Welsh flag remains tied to the lamp posts on the roundabout – severed in half by the chill winds of Plaid communism, it stands as a rebuke to the godless insanity of trying to drive down the hill to Ystrad at 20 mph.

A couple of dozen people had gathered to seek direction from the heavens. In companionable solitude we stood as our shadows lengthened, as if cast by warriors of old. Several generations of my family lie in the cemetery on Penrhys Road, guarding the sacred honour of our bloodline against foreign religions and paper straws.

As we snatched glances at the shrinking sun, birds began to fly backwards, screeching for mercy from their creator.

A shadow fell across the graveyard, and keening voices arose from it condemning the destruction of Our Lady’s Shrine by marauding Protestant forces in 1538.

My wife, the poet, began babbling in iambic pentameter, reaching a pitch of ecstatic incoherence unheard since Mike Hedges MS delivered his maiden speech in the Senedd.

Cowered before the awful caprice of the Almighty, repenting of our sins and disgusted at the carnal knowledge we once craved, unto us was delivered a sign. Careering round the island and on down to Tylorstown a pristine, white vehicle cut through the End Times with unwavering purpose.

‘Mr Sparkle’ had windows to clean and he wasn’t about to be knocked off course, celestial event or no celestial event.

Nervously, we all snatched glances at each other as the shadows began to lift.

‘Is that it, butt? Is it over?’

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