Trollaigh Fuel Triumph

09/16/2005

Up and at ‘em by 6.00 am on Wednesday, Lachie and I drive a tractor and the oldest Land Rover, both with trailers down to the village fuel pump. We encircle it and cut of fuel supplies in solidarity with the fuel price protests taking place elsewhere in the country. . In general, I am ambivalent about world fuel prices, which must be seen as a supply and demand thing, and the year on year increases are only costing the Glen Trollaigh Estates some £750 to £1000, a cost that we can recover by passing it on to our clients. What upsets me is that George Brown siphons off £8 for every £10 of fuel we buy, thereby making us hopelessly uncompetitive with our European neighbours, who even by hinting at a protest have their fuel taxes cut and indeed their fuel costs subsidised by their governments. Of course, the moron G. Brown Esquire is completely stuck by his own lies and mismanagement, as his grand economic plan is about to unravel with massive tax hikes and savage public spending cuts taking us back to the third world pre Thatcher years, the bastard needs every penny he can squeeze from his apathetic tax payers. I am vexed by the attitude of the great British public who’s only concern seems to be the price of pot noodles, lager and sky TV, and compared to even the French are so disinterested, they care not for the economic plight of others, President Blair must rejoice in such total self interest. At 9.00 am, the village shop opens and calls the police, very sensibly, none of the local Bobbies turn up, as they do not want to jeopardise their generous Trollaigh Christmas box and the chance of an invitation to the Peasant’s Estate Christmas Lunch. Instead, the Strathclyde Gestapo dressed in black, scream into the village in two howling Mercedes. The first step is to film the incident on digital video, before six burly Bobbies approach me. I am breathalysed and all documents pertaining to my vehicles are checked and forwarded by computer up-link to central HQ. As samples are drawn from my fuel tanks to check that I am not defrauding the Beastly Brown, several villagers surround the scene, a certain amount of good-natured heckling is met with more stony-faced digital filming and some very aggressive posturing by the Black Shirts. I just have time to hear the first few chants of “Scum”, “Oink-Oink” and “Bastards” before dearest Dottie and the girls trundle down from the Glen; I am surprised when they launch a spirited barrage of tomatoes and turnips at the uniformed cowards who swiftly retreat with cameras whirring. Jimmy runs out of the shop to inform us of our great victory as he has just been told that all fuel prices are to be reduced by four pence a litre. It only goes to show that the complacent pot noodles grazers have a lesson to learn from solidarity in the countryside. I am very glad that the Pigs have retreated in disarray as I pour many a dram to the assembled protesters and a small donation to Jimmy’s favourite charity squares the loss of a few hour’s business. Up the workers! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.