“Hmm”

By Panopticon

A sad, funny story of Sergei and Yulia –

not ‘funny ha-ha’, but funny peculiar…

One Sunday in March they decided to eat

at a nice little café, then stopped at a seat

where they both felt unwell at the very same minute –

now I think that’s quite a coincidence, ‘innit?

So an ambulance came for the pair, as requested.

But when they were studied, and prodded, and tested,

nefarious substances in them were found –

and not only there, but spread all around

old Salisbury town, up hill and down valley –

(the High Street is now known as ‘Chemical Alley’).

A passing D.S. who just happened to be there,

was poisoned like them when he went off to see where

they lived – or did he succumb at the scene?

(His bosses told two different stories on screen).

And while a good nurse who had tended them well

suffered no side effects, ‘far as I can tell,

some thirty-eight people were treated as victims,

but I think that someone was taking the mick, since

a day or two after those numbers were stated

the whole bloody lot of them evaporated.

*** Hmm. ***

The media descended like swivel-eyed dervishes,

paid no attention to church Sunday services;

campanologists’ melodies had to be quietened,

so BBC viewers could all be enlightened:

“Could you silence those chimes, my parochial friend?”

“Well I could, but at least can we hear the bell end?”

Now Boris mistakenly took that as cue

to appear on the telly, and give us his view

that the case had been cracked by his government sources,

e’en though the police had advised “Hold your horses”;

his bods back at Whitehall had worked round the clock

to identify something called ‘Doorknobichok’ TM

which he claimed had been smeared on the victims’ front door,

under cover of darkness on March 3 or 4.

‘Twas a devilish stuff that will kill you in seconds,

and was put there by Russkies (or so his boss reckons).

So lethal that only a tenth of a gram

would transport you to heaven, to visit your gran.

“So we have two deceased?” the reporters surmised;

“No, they’re not dead” said Boris, “just hoskripalised!”.

*** I thank you. ***

Then someone observed something really quite odd –

that the door didn’t seem to have bothered the plod

who was tasked with the duty of guarding the place,

long before it was clear that a poison was traced.

“So how could this be?” it was asked of the Tory,

who conferred with his colleagues, and then changed his story:

“No, it wasn’t the handle, but gas-tainted air

in the Skripals’ jalopy, ‘cause Vlad put it there!”

Then when this didn’t wash, he tried yet another –

“it was smuggled from Moscow by Yulia’s mother! (in law)”

In one last attempt to convince us that Putin

had ordered his henchmen to go put the boot in:

“They may have consumed it at breakfast, you see –

in Ricincles or Special K(GB);

for although it would seem like the plot of a thriller,

I’m convinced that our Vlad is a cereal killer!”

*** Hmmm. ***

Then a cordon was thrown around Salisbury town,

which was only a bus ride from old Porton Down

(a village connected to our alleged traitor –

for Sergei is he – but more of that later).

The government said that their duty of care,

because of the obvious dangers in there

meant they might have to pull down the café and pub,

so the locals would have to go elsewhere for grub;

And because of the contaminated front door,

their dwelling might need to be razed to the floor.

Well, this understandably raised some concerns

with the Salisbury folk, who took it in turns

to request some advice, because nobody knows

if they’d gotten the stuff on their shoes, or their clothes:

“Should we burn our belongings, or dump them at sea?”

“Nah, just wash ‘em on ‘quick rinse’ at forty degrees”.

“And what of that sinister place up the lane

where your poisons are made, is that whence it came?”

“If you don’t mind me saying, your question’s absurd,

as of Doorknobichok TMay, we never have heard,

except for the stockpiles we keep for ourselves,

and they are all safe and secure on our shelves”.

*** Oops. ***

The blame was laid squarely on Moscow and Vlad

(as we know from our Bond films that Russians are bad);

expulsion of diplomats worldwide arranged;

accusations thrown, and insults exchanged.

All cultural visits were cancelled or put off,

and Julie Assange had his internet cut off.

Then lo! and behold, our story got murky,

in a village you’ll find in a country near Turkey.

The Syrian leader, one Bashar Assad,

was repelling invaders, which made the West mad;

but just as his victory was nearing at last,

his own population he cruelly gassed –

or so we were told by the Powers That Be,

who strung us a line, didn’t want us to see

that some brave independents were taking a risk,

like Bartlett and Beeley, Stuart and Fisk,

to show us the true situation in Douma –

if the press did its job we’d have realised sooner

that far from Assad being a monster, and hated

by all of his people, he was celebrated

and trusted to stand up as their only true hope,

in the face of attacks from the U.S. and Europe.

And he wasn’t a ‘butcher’, on murderous mission,

but a family man, and a licenced optician.

*** We should’ve gone to Specsavers. ***

Emotional images filled up our screens,

showing suffering women, and babies, and teens;

they were choking on chlorine, which made us all furious –

but no men affected, which did seem quite curious…

The West didn’t wait, we accepted the claim

that the evil Assad was entirely to blame.

He was guilty of war crimes, as evidence proved –

for the good of the people, he must be removed!

Notwithstanding the signs that the Syrians may seem

broadly in favour of Mr. A’s ‘regime’

and the fact that with Russia they had some protection

from outside attacks, or their own insurrection.

Our Washington friends would insist that they need some

of Uncle Sam’s good ol’ American freedom

which had been so successful, I’m frequently told,

where nations had hardships, and oil, gas, and gold.

The narrative blaming Assad for the crimes

was reported as fact in The Sun and The Times

and most western leaders were keen to appease the

hawkish intentions of Boris and Theresa.

But a doubt did remain that the entire event

might have been a ‘false flag’, with malicious intent –

would our lovable ‘BoJo’ condone such a stunt?

Yes he would, because he’s an untrustworthy cad.

*******************************

Before we continue I think that we ought’ta

return to the poor stricken father and daughter

whose problems all started when they were infected

with poison – but how this event was connected

to wider concerns internationally,

and the threat of an outbreak of World War III

can be found in the c.v. of old Mister S.,

and the time he was caught and was made to confess

that a Brit double-agent was his part-time job,

with some colleagues betrayed for a few extra bob.

So a jail cell in Moscow was where he would stay,

till a spy swap arrangement took him to U.K.

Here he stayed for a while, but he yearned to go home,

which worried the spooks listening in on his phone.

Was this why the homesick old Russian was nobbled?

Or was it the claim that with help he had cobbled

together a dossier aimed at the POTUS,

that the Democrats hoped would dissuade U.S. voters

And result in the triumph of Hillary Clinton,

with subsequent guaranteed hell, fire and brimstone?

The plot didn’t work, and old Trump was elected,

but whatever the reason the pair were infected,

our government said “It’s clear if you ask us,

that this can be traced all the way to Damascus,

for it shows that the Russians will use any measure

to help young Assad and incur our displeasure;

The agents of Putin can poison to order

And will have no respect for law, life or border.

But nothing must stop the success of our plan

which began in Baghdad and will end in Tehran.”

*** “Highly Likely” ***

So despite all the evidence proving this crisis

was carefully staged by the West’s friends in ISIS,

these facts were ignored by the Beeb and the papers,

who called for an end to the Syrian’s capers.

This gave our P.M. all the reasons she needed

to mount an attack, with all protests unheeded,

along with her chums in the U.S. and France,

but they thoughtfully notified Vlad in advance;

for this wasn’t a true act of war, but a sham,

to convince all the voters that they had a plan.

A fortune was spent on some shiny new rockets

(replacements would benefit shareholders’ pockets);

so where shall we fire ‘em? Mrs. May scratched her head:

“Well we wouldn’t want anyone injured, or dead,

but we know where he hides his consignment of gases,

to terrorise all of his downtrodden masses,

so we’ll send in these missiles, with shock and with awe,

and we’ll blow the dumps up, which will shorten the war”.

“Won’t those missiles release all the toxins therein,

to destroy one and all – a terrible sin??”

A blank look appeared, then Theresa retorted:

“I’d not thought of that, could you please not report it?”

The bombing commenced, on irrelevant target

So the Maybot could emulate her idol, Margaret,

and show that in conflict she was strong and mighty

but meanwhile, something was stirring in Blighty…..

Our young Russian lady, whose certain demise

was expected, suddenly opened her eyes

just as Easter approached, in her hospital prison,

To be greeted with cries of “Christ, she is risen!”

And to make matters worse, she had borrowed a phone

and confirmed her good health to her cousin back home –

which scuppered the prospect that Yulia could

have been quietly forgotten, or silenced for good.

But what of her daddy, who’d been at death’s door

‘cause he’d got on the outside of A-234?

Well I’m glad to report that, despite the prognosis

that follows ingestion of such fatal doses

both he and the bobby awoke from their comas,

which filled sceptics’ nostrils with fishy aromas;

for what kind of poison, designed to be lethal

has no such effect on these three lucky people?

There were so many questions we needed to ask,

but journalists didn’t seem up to the task;

this global concern that had Doomsday advancing

took a sad second place behind ‘Strictly Come Dancing’.

And the government proved they had something to hide

by imposing a ban on reporting worldwide.

So the Skripals survived , but we still couldn’t see them,

the Powers That Be had denied them their freedom

And took them away to location unknown

without access to newspapers, TV or phone.

(I thought that their chances were now slim-to-none –

remember the plotline of ‘Capricorn One’?)

Then just as our hopes had been starting to fade

our Yulie appeared in a green English glade

and read out a statement, author unknown,

that asked if we kindly would leave her alone;

for although she was well she would like to appeal

that we give her more time to get through her ordeal;

and this sentiment really had nothing to do

with the fact that her kidnappers bloody well knew

that if they could escape from their new adversaries

they’d scoot back to Moscow and sing like canaries.

For if you think that Russia was guilty, I’ll tell you

where we can meet up, there’s a bridge I can sell you…

***************************

Epilogue

So that was the last that we saw of the pair

but it isn’t the end of this sorry affair

For although we’re not sure why the Skripals were picked on

It’s clear the official response was pure fiction

and twisted to play to the NeoCons’ plan

to annihilate Syria, to get to Iran

and to demonise Russia, who stands in the way

of a world dominated by U.S. of A.

Who’d support this assault? The U.K. and E.U. did

and lied through their teeth, ‘cause they think we’re all stupid.

But the crimes we commit on behalf of our rotten

regimes to our neighbours, will not be forgotten;

their patience will only protect us so far

then the West will provoke an unwinnable war.

And we’ll wonder how things could have got to the state

where we fear for ourselves and our own children’s fate

but forget that this land, where democracy lives

is now governed by liars, and traitors, and spivs

who will rig the roulette wheel for guaranteed wins

till we find that they’ve played us like cheap violins;

whose fake manifestos fight for our attention

with lies about justice, and healthcare, and pensions;

who’ll cheat, kill and steal, till they’ve conquered all nations

preaching hatred of Africans, Russians and Asians

and throughout their pursuits they’ll accept no dissent

and it’s all on behalf of the great one per cent.

And we’ll ask God how He could allow such a sin

And He’ll say “It was you lot who voted them in”.

*******************************

In Memory of Nash Van Drake and friends

© Panopticon

2018