FRENETIC activity at the Mahogany Ridge on Thursday evening as the regulars worked on their posters for the march. Perhaps it was the drink, but we came up with some real peaches:
“Dear Zuptas, it’s not you, it’s us. Ha-ha, only kidding. It is you. Very much so.” “Jacob eats puppies! And kittens!” “Where’s the cake?” “Does this arse make my country look small?” “I am really quite cross!”
Look, it may not have achieved much — if there ever was the remotest possibility that marches would make a difference, they’d be outlawed — but, hey, that’s just the way the middle classes like to roll. Which, admittedly, is not very often, but when we do, well, there we were, in our tens of thousands…
Our children have been laughing at us, the ingrates, and posting articles on our Facebook pages, like “Protesting 101 for White People”. You know the sort of thing. Snarky advice about singing Kumbaya and the proper clothes to wear.
The little shits, they forget that we grew up in the 1970s and 1980s, where you really did get beaten at demonstrations. And beaten very, very hard.
After which we settled down to our chosen careers so they could loll around, waited on hand and foot for 20-odd years — only to have them now lecture us about white privilege and what have you.