Driving Miss Daisy

It's war! It's not just any old war. Not the First, Second, Indo-China, Vietnam, Yom Kippur, Indo-Pakistan, Biafran, American War of Independence, Spanish or Greek Civil Wars, Star Wars, Battle of the Planet of the Apes or Jaw Wars. It's much, much more important than that.

It's a fight to the death, a struggle for survival, a last chance to save civilisation, to end the iniquity, the injustice, the crimes against humanity. It's the final countdown!!

It's not any old adversity. Old Nick is nothing compared to this menace, Sauron is sweetie by comparison. Darth Vader pales next to this monster.

I'm talking about David Cameron and the Battle of the Crumblies. Forget about the Battle of the Bulge, the Battle of Britain or  the Battle of the River Plate. This is the real thing.

In today's "Telegraph" is  revealed a plot so diabolical that even Pier Morgan would blush. One of Cameron's storm trooper has declared war on us "elderly people".

He has declared inter-generational war. He doesn't know what dogs of war he is about to let loose.

We're to be forced to work 'til we drop. Forced to move out of our ancestral homes and to live in cardboard boxes under Charing Cross Bridge (or any bridge within a Freedom Pass' bus ride). We're to be nudged into our graves; encouraged to make way for the younger generation!

And what does 44 year old David Cameron, in his 3 or 4 bedroomed house in a smart part of town have to say about this: "I love the idea"!!!! He is a marked man, as is  his diabolical underling and chief necromancer of the dark arts of nudging,  David Halpern.

 At this moment old grannies are being mobilised, shopping trolleys armed and false teeth sharpened. There will be no hiding place.

Convoys of mobility scootors and invalid vehicles are to converge on all strategic motorways and busy High Streets. Gangs of shopping trolley wielding OAPs will descend on Tesco, Sainsbury's and Waitrose with spray guns filled with Steradent foam and Lavender soap bubbles spraying the fruit and veg rendering it unfit for human consumption.

Dainty tea shops in far away villages and market towns will become nerve centres for the operation. From those centres of sedition lovely old ladies will in concert return all their overdue  Barbara Taylor Bradford library books thereby paralysing local authorities at a stroke.

A month's supply of meals on wheels lunches have been stockpiled nationally. Crack battalions of spritely 90 years olds are, at this moment, loading them into catapults made from granny pant elastic. With one shout an avalanche of inedible slush will rain down on each and every Job Centre in the country.

Hospitals, large and small will not be spared once the geriatric ward darlings have picked up their crutches, incontinent pads and heart pace makers and stormed the young doctors' common rooms.  Hapless nurses and consultants will be strapped to X Ray machines and cooked!

After this onslaught a deadly hush will descend over the nation. The young  will wonder the streets in a daze pleading to be put out of their misery. The 30  to 40 year old will stare in disbelief as their mothers and fathers armed to the teeth, deliver the coup de grace to the fruit of their loins.

But worse, much worse than all of this.The final terror.


Every theatre in the country, in every large and small town, city or village hall will be forced to run "Salad Days" seven days a week. On the silver screens across the nation one film will run -"Brief Encounter", and on all the myriad TV channels one programme will drown out the insane chatterings of the young - "The Billy Cotton Band Show". An unending series of repeats of "Women Hour" and Gardeners Question Time" will flood the airways.

Look on the Face of Your Doom and Weep!