Jimmy lay in the darkened room, ruminating on the Christmas just passed. It seemed those childhood hours, protecting his surviving, diseased eye, in just such a room, were as yesterday. Yet here he lay in one of the most luxurious houses in Britain. Flunkies everywhere, his Butler just outside the door. Thousands of police and security patrolling the grounds. All his dreams should be now of contentment and of success. However billions and billions of pounds had failed to assuage the longing he felt so unrequited. He had wanted a Utopian state of minority rule. A place where all poor and idle, gay or crooked could live in awe of his power and might. He had longed for a majority of white, middle class peoples bent to his dominant will and control. His spite and loathing for decent, affluent and or well educated individuals had got so very close to being achieved.
Despite all his near run victories over those who so reminded him of his father's strict and violent control, he now lay, this day after Christmas, suffering the downer his drug regime gave him. This, exacerbated by the recent few weeks of abject failure.
Copenhagen, where the coldest weather throughout the planet for several months, had "stabilo'd" the CRU political pawn status in deep, bright scarlet marker pen. Denmark, where the failed gathering had seen him relegated to the status of mere puny observer. Snotty had been well and truly snubbed by all and sundry.
His love of two other men was in tatters. Blinky and Mandypants were now blaming him for their own rift. There was climate change all right. Freezing relationships and a new ice age, damn it. No one loved him and worse, no one feared him. Everything he touched turned bad. His mantra for troop deaths and horrible maiming, about keeping the streets safe was now ridiculed as thousands of UK resident students erupted all over the world, bombing and killing.
He heaved a deep sigh and choked back the tears. Then he slowly rose from the bed and rang for his man. "Is Dobbin here? " he asked. "Yes" answered the Butler. "I'll take you to him, in the basement. No one will see us. Shall I bring the pills, too?"
The hunched broken figure, aided by the young Butler, sloped off down the long, opulent corridor. The feint tune of "Auld Lang Syne" could just be heard, striking the dread of the year to come, in the black, morose, depressed cavity where never a soul was ever known to have existed.
Meanwhile in every street in Britain "students" huddle together, their "engineering" text books, paid for by UK citizens, vie for space on crowded surfaces and tables, with false passports, documents and airline and transport schedules. In the wastelands of Afghanistan soldiers toil to keep those very streets safe for the plotters and allies of Al Quaeda.