Like my inability to reopen the Moot House for private prayer, as is now allowed. I've been promising I'll open it as soon as I can. And I will. Just as soon as I've sold through all the bleach and hydroxychloroquine I've stockpiled in there. I'm expecting a big order through from the States.
And some Beaker People have taken objection to the statue of Boris Johnson I've erected in the Rose Garden. And yes, I know he's a divisive character. That's why I've put it up. I know if I keep banging on about people wanting to pull down the Boris Johnson statue, they'll all get umpty about the statue and forget about the rationing, brownouts and poor air quality they've been suffering from. And the way that, due to copyright issues when we bought the online worship package, we're only allowed to stream "I The Lord of Sea and Sky". All the time. Well, I've paid for it now so that's what you're getting.
Make no mistake. This statue of Boris Johnson is the fridge that I'm prepared to die on. I should like to clarify to some baffled people that the little children around his feet are not there to be blessed. The symbolism is that he's checking to see if any of them are his. In much the same way that he is like a little chubby balding father to the nation. I'm sure that, as the days progress and he realises that he will eventually be forced to cave in to the EU or face food riots, the falling of his once-luxuriant locks will mean he achieves his lifetime's ambition of being like Winston Churchill, at least in girth and follicles. Which is why the statue has removable hair, as well as interchangeable loyal women beside him.
Since by my pointless banging on about the statue rather than addressing any serious issues I can sense a Beaker Mob already forming - and these are the real enemy, loyal Beaker People - I have had to take precautionary measures. We have locked the Boris Johnson statue in an industrial fridge to keep it safe - actions entirely caused by the Beaker Mob. Not by my erecting a statue of an incompetent funnyman-turned-politician in the Rose Garden. No. When the Local Beaker People, together with some bored, resentful and confused men I've had bussed in from Essex on the promises of Stella, rise up against this statue, it will all be your fault.
Right. I'm off for a nap now. I've been awake since half past eight, and I let Young Keith do the actual running of the Community these days.
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