It looks like we're in for another jolly bout of Tory government in a matter of months, so we in the Cymru Rouge are ready with some advice for Master Cameron and his swanky swan-guzzling chums.
"What can Welsh Maoists possibly have to say to Old Etonians that can't better be expressed with a mattock-blow in a paddy field?" you may ask.
As it happens, some of us have read The Independent and know all about Gramsci, hegemony and the like. Having acknowledged that our own electoral uplift is not going to burst out of the Thames Valley Bustier, we are happy to have the Conservatives implement our policies for us.
If there's one thing hemp-clad, slogan-shrieking Silurian child-soldiers have in common with whale-shaped grandees it's a love of wholesome country living. They eat nursery food in unheated piles, compare bowel eruptions and mount one another with bellies full of port. We sit and wait in thickets, endlessly, like the owl Blodeuwedd.
The greatest crime of the Blair Government was to persuade the grimy urchins of the Labour Party that it is acceptable to be a ponce. It is not. New Labour then cast its Mabuse shadow over the Tories, so that you now hear distressing tales of Cameron's Notting Hill "lifestyle":
- sober dinner party discussions of personal finance,
- foreign, non-curried food eaten with sincere relish,
- public education - indeed, any education, and
- ladies taking ministerial responsibility for more than milk-snatching and nurses.
Any more of this and our democracy will be in serious danger. A choice between three political parties of middle-class bores is no choice at all, and the drinking, smoking, rutting and recreational-fighting classes might well march on That London with the heads of estate agents on pikes come Imbolc.
To effect national reconciliation and avoid the reign of King Mob, I would like to resurrect an idea Gyppo Byard and I developed some years ago. Then we considered it a diverting television programme; now we understand it could save the Crown.
The instigation was an American programme called "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy", in which five shameless inverts sought to undermine the not-at-all repressed male obsessions with contact sports, body odours and drunken fisticuffs by a strict regime of couture, musicals and salad. The result - the eventual election of President Obama - signals the success of this cultural osmosis.
We proposed to take ownership of this device in a uniquely rural way. We would take a representative group of metropolitan degenerates - Peter York, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown, Wayne Hemingway, Polly Toynbee, Madelaine Bunting, the Bishop of Southwark and The Pet Shop Boys - in the back of a Land Rover to the Welsh Marches.
We'd con them into coming by saying it's an all-paid trip to a delightful converted farmhouse in Le Marche Gallese.
Once esconced at Taff's End, an underheated Tudor nightmare of noisome plumbing and over-familiar beagles, they would be matched up with a local type - poachers, arsonists, Gypsies, matrons of the Ladies Fellowship, hereditary Fenian prisoners, the colonels who detained them, and the usual selection of unqualified doctors, Welsh policemen and shell-shocked Classics masters.
These would introduce them to antic pursuits that we deemed least suited to the individual drone/harpy. For example:
- Miss Kilgore ("It's Miss! Miss!!") would have Yasmin buffing St Oswald's chalice in good time for his feast day,
- Major Tarry the magistrate and amateur gunsmith would demonstrate the finer points of Lex Despenser in the Ludlow usage ("Guilty as a Frenchman, fetch the barrel!") to York and anyone in a quarter-mile radius who dares to wear cologne,
- Ms Bunting would expand her understanding of different faith traditions with the help of the Rev Elias's collection of Medieval shriving tools ("Yes, sinners were smaller in those days, but I'm sure you'll fit once Miss Kilgore's finished the preparations."), and
- Wayne Hemingway would have an entire episode devoted to his adventures with Tinker Mullins, simply entitled "Eels".
Our aim was purely fun at someone else's expense but, as is often the case, we had stumbled upon a solution, or at least a solvent, for our fractured fiefdom. Instead of meretricious televisual entertainment, an imaginative government could make much more out of "Let Fly at Their Back Eye" (no more than a working title, it's true, but it captures the essence of violence, colloquialism and bigotry).
I propose a Department of State, devoted to rooting the deracinated firmly in the soil of the pays réel - whether literally or not will be left to local referenda, on a property-holder's franchise.
Any members of Central Office who might be reading, please feel free to get in touch by cleft stick.