Monday, July 25, 2005


Blunkett stepped gingerly from his limo to meet Howard Jones outside Buckingham Palace. Fuck knows what this scene was gonna be like. The success of the Wembley gig had battered his head a bit. The papers had been full of shock horror stuff regarding all the violence and the snuff movie, but you could tell everyone really got off on it. What was messing with Dave’s head was why he was being allowed to get away with all this. There’d been no comeback from the law at all — questions in Parliament, yeah, but that was just publicity-hungry backbenchers desperate to make a name for themselves. The coppers were keeping their distance from the whole sordid spectacle.

Dave thought it was weird because he was clearly breaking fuckloads of laws and shitting all over traditional moral values. It seemed to be alright if it was in the name of entertainment and raking in wads of dosh for EMI though.
"Alright Howard, where’s the party?" stammered Dave to the aristocratic reporter who was lurking outside the Palace like some weirdo stalker.
"This way, old chap" said Jones, guiding Dave by the arm in a paternalistic manner that really got on his fucking tits but fuck it.

Blunkett and Jones went through a bunch of ceremonial gates into the Palace. A load of blokes wearing stupid costumes were lurking around, busbies or beefeaters or whatever the fuck they were. As ridiculous as they looked in those get-ups, Dave noticed that the geezers were pretty hefty and could no doubt get a bit handy if need be. It was subtly intimidating shit and Dave was quietly impressed with the evil power he could feel around the gaff. No wonder these royal fuckers were interested in meeting a cunt like me, he thought.

Dave and Howard entered a huge ballroom which was covered in gold and jewels on every surface. A flunky handed them both glasses of champagne and Howard led Dave on.
"David, you simply must meet the Prime Minister"
Blunkett was suddenly face to face with Penelope Keith, the Iron Lady herself.
"Why hello Mr. Blunkett - charmed I’m sure"
Dave was freaked to fuck. This Tory cow was being genuinely pleasant to him. He stammered his thoughts out loud:
"Why are you being nice to me? I represent everything you detest, your newspapers say so!"
"Oh Mr Blunkett - you do have a lot to learn! Ha ha ha!", she laughed patronisingly, "Ha ha ha!"
Howard Jones led Dave to an ante-chamber. "The fun’s about to start, chap — you won’t believe what you’re about to see!"

A select crowd of the ball’s attendees had gathered in the smaller room. Blunkett suddenly twigged that top quality snuff videos were being projected onto every wall — far worse shit than the South American one he’d got hold of. This was graphic close-up rape and snuff torture with high production values.

Then Dave noticed that the Royal Family themselves were in the room — the Queen and her mum, Philip, Charles, Andrew, Edward and Anna. They were all wearing their crowns and robes and stuff and they were encircling a young and frightened child who was strapped to a table. They had knives and were stabbing the kid randomly, all the while laughing like horses. "So mote it be!" guffawed the Queen was she poked the victim’s eye with a sharp stilletto blade, "Ha ha ha!"

"Naff off to Hell, child!" added Princess Anna. The Queen Mother was watching this scene rather than participating, and Dave noticed her growing two foot in height and revealing her lizard head. Her eyes were like horrible saucepans.

Blunkett thought he had a strong stomach for the sicko stuff but this shit made him wanna blow his cookies. Jesus, I really am small fry in the corruption stakes, he reflected.

He stumbled from the chamber leaving his mate Howard there drinking in the vile scene with his eyes. As he re-entered the main chamber he bumped into Sir Richard Astley, the deputy PM who’d been on Cath Carroll’s radio show with him a few weeks ago.

Dave really was at a loss for words. Astley had a patronising look in his eye.
"Dave, I expect you’re wondering why you’re here. When I say ‘here’, I mean, the position you’re in. A lot of people have worked very hard to ensure that your band have had such success"

Some other top politico with Astley chipped in:
"You see Dave, when we found out about power electronics it was too good an opportunity to miss. Our long-term plans for Europe involve re-establishing German dominance over the economic system. We used your form of, erm, 'entertainment' to ensure that Nazi chic was rebranded in the public’s mind as mere enterteinment."

"Yes, and what’s more, we’re working on a mind control beam to mentally enslave the sheople oF Europe... and it’s ex-Nazi scientists who’re doing most of the work on this", Astley continued, "Operation Paperclip has ensured that these gentlemen flourished, albeit out of the public eye. The groundbreaking PR work done by Hitler Rally will enable these wonderfully industrious and efficient men to come out of the closet, so to speak, and re-enter public life. Maybe even your mysterious pal Martin Boorman will re-emerge from Brazil - he has ambitions of entering the film industry, I hear!"
Both politicians chuckled, a vile corrupt mirthless laughter.

A thunderbolt exploded in Dave Blunkett’s mind. His motives from the start had been rooted in rebellion, just pure rebellion against everything. The liberal-baiting had been down to the fact that watching the TV made him feel sick and alienated ‘cause he couldn’t relate to that mainstream shit. He was just kicking against the system instinctively - but he’d been set up by proper sick fuckers who’d used his nihilistic entertainment to further their own clandestine fascist child—sacrificing power-mad cabal.

"BOLLOCKS TO YOU CUNTS!!!" he screamed at the Nazi mind control freaks, "I’m Fuckin’ goin’ public with all this shit I’ve found out about. The public loves me ‘cause I’m a rebel who don’t give a fuck, I’m gonna bring down the entire secret world government and blow the gaff on your mind control beam!"

"Alas, poor Blunkett, you’re oh so too late... the groundwork with public manipulation has already been done. If you quit now, nothing will change. Why not work with us? We’ve done a little preliminary work on what your next album should contain. We want to soften up the public to slowly accept the reality of aliens, so the next Hitler Rally album will be full of songs about alien rape..."
"No. I quit" said Dave with immense dignity.
"Well, that’s too bad" said Prime Minister Penelope Keith who’d crept up on the party from behind. Her horrible old bag’s face was covered with childrens’ blood and excrement. "You could have had it all, Mr Blunkett - cocaine and young girls for the rest of your life... but it looks like you’re going back to being a nobody in Torquay. EMI will of course drop the band immediately...why hello, Doktor Grunenbarg!"

Some vicious looking old Nazi with little beady eyes behind his granny glasses had entered the fray.
"Guten tag, alles! Und now ve haf ze perfect experimental use of ze mind control beam — ve vill hypnotise ze entire welt to never remember zis power electronics or der Hitler Rally-band! Ha ha ha!"
"Ha ha ha!" they all laughed, "HA HA HA!!"

Dave’s head was utterly fucked. It seems Mike was right, he thought, I’m well out of my bleedin’ depth here. It had all been like a dream. He quietly slipped out out the Palace, scarcely noticed, to hail a taxi and begin his long journey back to Torquay.